The field is full, all eyes on the gazebo

where the Army Band stands in full

regalia, men in blues, women in long

skirts, white shirts buttoned to necks

in July heat, throats visible for notes

yet unleashed.

 

Our anthem starts, men with hips askew,

cragged necks, rise in unison from lawn

chairs scattered in this spontaneous summer

theatre. Women, toddlers, grandparents, teens,

soldiers fresh from the battlefield, place hands

over hearts, sing while the ensemble blares

accompaniment--—at least a half dozen

French horns gleam with reflected sunset.

 

We return to our seats (Mine has a footrest

that never works and a handful of sand

from last summer at the shore), an evening

of glory begins -- Sousa of course, then

a touch of South America, a rondo

of flutes, a confluence of sounds

soothes, rouses, chills.

 

Then the hymns of the armed services,

stand when you hear yours, says the

conductor, and as those around us stand:

navy, marines, air force, army, we sit in awe,

watch those older, those younger, those who

rose easily, those whose wives and children

helped to their feet, share their pride, sense

their service as the conductor offers his

stiff-hand salute to the array.

 

A bevy of piccolos trills as Stars and

Stripes Forever provides the penultimate

thrill. The leader then asks us to rise as dusk

shrouds the field, to sing God Bless America.

We place politics in our back pockets to share

a sliver of patriotism with our neighbors on this,

the weekend of Independence Day.

 

© by Gail Fishman Gerwin.

Used with the author's permission.