They sat perched. Lofty and waiting. Waiting for the perfect time, the precise moment at which to strike. The hours had dragged on and their muscles were almost frozen. They had all but utterly stiffened during the night. They were unqualified to move, hanging on and not knowing which way to go. They waited for instructions. They waited for direction. Nothing came.
They had been at this very spot many times before. Suspended, hovering... on the brink. There were eight of them. They each knew their jobs, should they ever be called to perform them. They each knew their boundaries, should they ever be called to cover them. They were reasonably trained, fairly skilled; and in the small hours of the night when all was quiet, when nothing stirred... achievement was their only vision. The distractions of the day were over and they crouched, poised. Focused and ready to hit. Yet more often than not, they waited... longing to be called upon; longing to serve; yearning to fulfill their purpose. It seemed a never-ending struggle. All the preparation, the working to be fit and ready - only to face the let-down of no command... They sat perched. Waiting for the perfect time.
Finally the order came! All eight fingers jumped to attention and flew across the keyboard! Reasonably trained, fairly skilled! Writing! Filling the paper! Achieving... performing! Always under pressure, but always loyal.
And all too frequently, forgotten.
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