symphony

Before the last note of the Hanson you can hear the entire wind section breathe in great quantities of air, some great many-headed monster preparing to breathe fire. The last note impacts like a meteor and there's a puff of rosin dust rising out of the violin section, broken bow hairs flying.

And in the Dvorak the cellos are swaying to their own beautiful melody; the orchestra looks like a colony of corals in a warm ocean current. The piccolo is the flashing of the small fish in the sunlight and the low brass and basses are the ocean floor itself.

It ends in a flurry of dancing, you're supposed to be swinging in the moonlight, arm in arm, spinning as fast as you can without falling over. The audience claps and the orchestra sounds like a herd of buffalo. The maestro bows three times and finally the lights dim on the stage.

Downstairs everybody is singing their favorite parts, putting away their instruments, polishing them, cleaning them, putting on their coats and smiling because they can't stop; because their faces have been smiling for so long and they are so full of nervous energy and so exhausted from the performance that they can't smooth out their muscles. We tell each other it went well and climb the stairs to the lobby where there the audience is waiting. Our friends meet us. They gives us hugs and shake our hands and we stand around talking about the music. Then we walk home in the storm outside, wind whipping our hair.