You step onto the field and feel the Green of the fake grass through the White of your shoes and the White of your socks and the White of your skin, the Green that stretches out in front of the line of Brown and White uniforms as you all wait for the first Black drum to make its first Black beat that means you can step forward, past the Orange line that is the Point of No Return, the Orange line on the Green field under the White socks and shoes and skin and soul.

The instruments are brass, are Gold and Silver and Black, Black of clarinets, of basses, of music notes on music staffs, Black of skin and dirt and grime, invisible on some, but we all got dirty on the way here, on the journey it took to make the music come out in the colors it needs to be, the Greyscale of piano the Technicolor of forte the strange Pastels of harmonies the Red and Black of discord that somehow comes together in a powerful pallet that wells up inside you until you want to scream Black or cry Blues that run across White faces and Green fields to join the Rainbow growing just outside the gate.