Inside of her a solo was performing: little juncos wearing clean overalls. When they hopped, bravos occurred, a far-off migration conducting marvels of cliffs swayed back and forth deep in the orchestra, and when the lead violins stood up the firs united, joined this place inside the solo, and all around feather-lit trombones, a big copper colored bassoon, the flutes, fluttered like clouds in a wind. When it was time for the solo again she sang so high, so exquisitely full, sailboats of their own accord untied themselves from the wharfs, caught a breeze, and floated apparition-like through the audience until the whole symphony began to feel this rudderless way of singing was arriving at new destinations, and they would feel within themselves miles of tiny sailboats begin to pull out for deeper water, while the waves washed against this performance: clapping.

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