Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
For here at A-team were we once infected.
Twas but a week (maybe more) ago whence we learned
Of the ill-will brought upon us by a virus from lands afar.
This morn was no celebration. No anniversary.
It was merely an opportunity to Q –
Nay, to Lead! For A-team is an OG site. One of the first.
And such is the spirit of A-team that one must show
Yearly, if not moreso, to rekindle the animal spirits
Buried within the dirt, and sand, and gravel
Of Apex Community Park.
Set ye’ alarm lay out ye’ threads of wool and performance fabrics.
It be cold, a mighty chill in the air, as summer set and bequeths
The days to falls crisp, clear, cloudless morn.
Stiff sinews, creaky joints, a tired eye
Disguise the will and yearning for beatdowns of lore.
And lest you think three quarters an hour too meager,
Portals to nightly exuberance present theyself
When the moon, her guilded aura overhead hangs,
Begins her stately decent into Hades’ dark pits,
Chased quickly to the fiery chariots of Apollo and his spear.
Come a decade past five, three sheathed their car keys
Engaging orbit-bound trackers, and set off fearlessly
In the gloom. Clicks of three complete, they uponned
A fluttering banner of magenta, ivory and azure, bound
To a simple gardening tool, thrust, with malice, into the earth,
Which shrieked a blast of silence at the deed.
Rounding quickly yonder a bakers dozen more men –
Some stout, others sleepy – descended onto the standard.
Orations to leadership, and followership, and modify-as-needed-ership
Were made. Reminders to of the silent pestilence in our mindst
Infecting some, sparing others, sending all from Patriot to President
Into the Quarantines of Hell (or Fox News).
“Keep thy distance and be spared! Aye. Beware.”
Time it was. Going we must.
Moseying past the wall of metal closed.
Starting cool, quickly warmed, with progressions of movements,
As though the spirits caught us. Hops were straddled, claps were
Overheaded. Merkin worn, walking imperiously. A handful! Nay two! Nay three!
Teenandfive times each such was the count.
Warmed we were.
Split tow ways, in solitude there is no joy.
Paced aquick the men did. Rocks hoisted, repeatedly,
Imitating the action of an elephant; beast of burden;
Chased by its master yonder pickle. From finger small to finger fat
Progressions of toils were called. Some fifty, then half, then merely ten.
The sands of time fell, as counts-of-ten brought peace.
Time is a stubborn mistress, calling us back to her banner.
Once more as pairs, modestly, we remit to the start.
Encircled. And rested. Like a cockroach dying, a hammer, hammering
Our heels to heaven like a superman felled. Such that daisies grow,
Only to be picked, in their prime. In cadence.
Hark! Dispatches. Thoroughly Brainless but Wholly Meaningless activities
abound. Funds are sought. And prayers to our Father raised. Together.
In earnest requests for healing and guidance and peace.
Aye. Now close that wall.
William Shakespeare, Henry V
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility: