Quiet Passing ... The Baton ...

A thousand songs.

A million tapping feet.

A Band at his command.

Drummers drumming merrily.

His baton carried the rhythm.

He anticipated the clang of the cymbal

and the trill of the flute ...

Beneath his feet he felt the following

of a hundred musicians

all watching his baton.

And when at last he lowered it

that warm April morning,

the drummers stopped their drumming

and the band came to a halt and waited.

"I am old and tired," he spoke lowly,

"I can only hear the rhythm in my mind now."

No one moved. No one breathed.

All eyes were once again on the baton

as his elderly hands passed it on ...

and the drummers once again began to drum.