Northside, GA

Shuffling of feet and the slight hint

of mold, growing weary on the flip side

of ceiling tiles, fills the halls between

classes. The excited buzz bounces off

chipped, triple painted walls and filters

to temporary silence as students fill classrooms –

cold, metallic, back-cracking desks

in a few rows of five or six.

It’s Friday. Teachers cast the notion that work

must be completed to the side, sweet release of

two-forty-five on the mind. Feet on the desks,

bubbly chattering, and lively arguments

come to a halt as a raspy voice echoes in

the wake of black-clad, funeral bound students.

His voice stops. Stampede. Bodies shove

and bump and fall filing through one side

of the double doors. The plodding of feet falls

in time with the banging of band drums. Freshman

and seniors to the right, sophomores and juniors

to the left. Blue jerseys stand over the crowd, stoic,

almost absent of the ecstasy in excitement. The band

squeaks to a fever pitch and with one last sweep

of an arm, silence.

Flurries of blue, white, and orange surround

the horned creature holding a pitchfork. It’s strung up,

hung, its destiny already determined. Death by spirit stick.

With each stroke, penance is paid, and the crowd cheers louder.

It falls, white insides strewn across the floor,

and with its final thud, the penultimate, deafening screech of eagles

pierces the air until the sun falls across the horizon

and the scoreboard is alight.

They always say

it’s great to be a Northside eagle,

and I never knew what they meant,

until I left.