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121 T H e V i s i T april afternoon. The concert master comes to see his friend one last time, rests the violin against his neck, and lets Vaughan Williams’ lark climb the feathered strings, slant off, catch a lift from the west wind, stroke into a long diminuendo as ripe air rises from a dogwood down below. a dark sky blows in as predicted, the bird disappears, but the note still unfolds like a strand of blue-eyed grass nudged by rain. ...

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