Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Marching Band Tragedy

There is a trumpet under the rock. A crumpled, sad, very dirty trumpet. Or maybe a bugle. And the rock is really more of a boulder. But the important thing is that it is under the boulder. Mostly under the boulder, anyway, as though it has tried to dig itself out.
I imagine a horrible accident: trumpet lying on the grass. Boy in military-esque marching costume earnestly chatting up the girl with the French horn... The landscaper's Bobcat trundling up the sidewalk with the boulder in the bucket. The horn lies helpless, crying silently for its owner: "Turn around! Save me!" But it needs lips and lungs to come alive, and so, ironically, cannot make a sound.
*