Erjika Tevkana
Wisps of the mellophone solo drift mournfully over the field. The power has gone out, but we are still outside in the bitter cold. The glaring headlights from two cars at the opposite side of the field cast sharp reliefs as the marchers move softly, silently across the grass. The long shadows thrown over the field coalesce into evenly spaced lines, melding into a company front. As one, the band marches forward, the brilliant back-lighting throwing their features into obscurity, like vengeful angels in deliverance. The sparkle of glinting instruments, silhouettes sliding in pattern, with mist gathering at their feet in the frozen air. The dark harmony rises up with their life's breath, ending sharply in a silent wail, the sound echoing through the night. As one, they stand at attention, their shadows like bars against the frosted grass.
