May in the orchard

and all in full bloom, gauzy Degas dancers lift their limbs overhead, billow their skirts, white net and pink tulle, let them rise and fall in the susurrus of the breeze. The grackles swoop in tuxedoed in black moire, scrape their rusty strings, tune up for the overture. The very air rustles its silks. It's opening night at the Ballet de Printemps: Applause, applause. Lift up your hearts, the world's in love.

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