Traditions (during the collapse)

A stone grotto,
candles flickering in the light breeze,
sun-dappled sidewalk and comments,
not whispered exactly,
but comfortable low and smooth.

A head is bowed, a brief recollection,
for one who has fallen,
who'd gone this way before.

Familiar places.
Thundering unity.
Blue and gold and passion,
not hard-won,
but honor bound and
inevitable.

Yet.

An uneasy tension fills the air.
Do they feel it?
Everything is
at once the same
and forever altered.

A shadow falls.
Does any one (else) see it?

Fourth and goal . . .