color

The band is set up on stage. The warms and cools are pushed up, pink and pale blue streaks of light cross the grey stage. They shine off guitars and mandolins, dobros and fiddles, banjos, buckles, jewelery, and everything else. I hear them talking, in unmiced voices that sound quiet when they’re not. A light breeze blows in and it smells like rain. The fiddler plucks a string to tune. Someone leans into a mic and I look at the clock and start the timer.

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