Sound

I hear the running of a new beat
not the clashing, but
the simple addition of another birthed voice.

It does not have an identity,
but there is a pale hopeful
glimpse of a new way of moving.

Movement calls to the
hands of the drummer,
and the senses deep in the palm
pushing, grinding, sounding, pounding
the tradition of a generation.

This said pale sound
tunes itself to the mouths of the old.
The new hands, the smart ones,
take their cues from tradition.

But they are not the same people.
Neither do they play the same song.