Standing at an arbitrary place on a featureless plain
The surf of the ill-named ocean at my back
Drowned out by monsters turning over in their sleep
Brass sunlight fights the sea breeze to warm or cool me
Drumbeats overhead, a rhythm immediately familiar
Raised on a rich diet of Technicolor celluloid
You can almost hear the cliché strains of Wagner
Echoing over the empty beach
A small speaker forms an auditory altar
The cargo cult totem of the service
Music from fifty years ago played loud
Self-aware summoning of our predecessors
Laughing with friends over beers back home
Cherishing the love notes received through the day
Keeping a weather eye on the sky
Making ready to live in interesting times