Frigid air seeps at our necks,
as the booming echo of an announcer
rings from the loudspeakers—adrenaline swells.

In squadron files, all identical, opaled feathers,
cold brass, hot lungs screaming for focus.

One step, left first, right next, calculated,
crystal, controlled, with the brilliance of those
who have done so countless times.

Arranged on the field, we spread in arcs,
concentric, white...