There is a place,

no,

moreso a feeling

in which the lights,

fluorescent and white,

cast shadows in the bleachers.

It's ominous when the shimmering instruments and everything seems so still.

In the distance is a fog and pastel colors dancing behind the clouds;

my blood is beginning to roar in my ears.

Halftime.

It's halftime.

Time has begun and it has become a race.

The percussionists file in alongside brass and woodwind colleagues,

helmets adorned with downy feathers.

We play;

the crowd shrieks,

and it is done.

Every nerve is tense.

I tremble,

but it is not a bad sort of tremble,

triumphant and exhilarated.

This is what it is to be in marching band.

This is Friday night lights.