As the sun spills its colors

across the sky

like a tousled paint palette,

Peter Piper pipes his tune.

We follow, pulled by invisible strings.

Drawn like bugs to the zapper,

the young and the old alike,

flit around the town’s gazebo.

Young marchers stamp out the beat

as older members’ eyes glaze

with memories and emotion.

Toes tap the timpani;

fireflies finger the flutes.

Chalk-drawn clarinets

sing their sweet music to the night.

The twilight answers with its breeze,

trying to carry the tune

within its course.

One last drum beat breaks the spell.

Then people scatter

like the notes across the page.

– Shannon Rasmussen lives in Lawrence.