On a warm, lazy Saturday way down South, 

it is almost like time has stopped. 

In this little town of just a few hundred, 

time is truly relative. 

As the lone traffic light flickers,

green, red, yellow, 

birds weave their wonderous songs. 

Birds of every kind, tweeting, singing, making a masterpiece of music,  

more beautiful than anything ever heard.  

As their songs whistle through the pines and the oaks, 

time continues to stand still. 

These songs will continue to be sung until the day of the end of time. 

Songs that will continue until they are drowned out by the hum of life. 

Because on this particular Saturday, way down South, something is taking place. 

Something that has not happened for a long time. 

A few short years ago, a behemoth stood over this little town. Attracted people from far and

wide, and became a place of solitude for many. 

It used to be full of life, full of spirit, full of people.  

Not anymore. 

It now stands as a reminder of an era gone by, when people could converge in one place. 

When they could talk for hours, about cars, about life, about love. 

They could watch their favorite cars zoom around a track at lightning speed, 

without a care in the world. 

But after a while, the people stopped coming, stopped converging, stop talking, 

and found other things to do.  

And it stood lifeless, over a town of a few hundred. 

STOOD. 

Becuase on one Saturday, way down South, 

a new sound whispered through the pines, much different than the normal song that was sung. 

One that was heavy, enegetic, harsh and loud.  

As the sentinent behemoth is being given a new life, 

people converge again, listen to the new sounds, 

one that is only sung on Saturdays, way down South.