Some say they hear music

Some say they hear music

When to others there is none

Dancing in the meadows

To the rustle of leaves

The beating of an Eagles wings

The carping of an old crow.

There is a melody

Carried on the dancing wind

Battle cries

Of long-gone wars

A skirl of ancient Pipers

The rattle of drums

Following the old paths

Ghosting through the halls

Of the church in the village.

The echoes in the walls

When choir boys sing

There is a kind of magic

A touch of William Blake.

There is a certain majesty

To hear a lone bugle call

It has the power

To leave men in tears

In poignant recognition

Of their loneliness.

Have you seen a soldier fall

In the heat of remembrance

The discipline of a slow march

When hot feet itch to be free

Of tightly fitting shoes.

There is a hint of defiance

In moody brass

Cutting through conformity

Breaking windows

Hitting the high notes with precision

The thrill of a trill.

Watch those dancing toes

They understand the text

Of a libretto.

How many of us have heard nothing

In the whisper of the wind

But a discordancy of sound

And wondered

What lies hidden

Within its movement

When the rhythm section

And the string players know,

It is a natural born

Symbiotic harmony of the soul