The Morning Before the Tent

The field is still dark,
the tents folded like they always are —
blind to what's about to happen here.

By Five

The volunteers drift in —
coffee, a clipboard, the shared knowing nod.
Nobody needs to say what today is.

The Food Row

Collards low and slow,
cornbread that must come out golden —
food is logistics; love is the schedule.

The Count

Folding chairs by the dozen,
rain plans in a jean pocket —

a festival is a thousand small promises, made before anyone walks through the gate.

The Gate Opens

Then it all means something —
the jazz trio tunes up, someone's grandmother laughs.
This is the hour no one films, and it's the whole point.