AT TANGLEWOOD Gretchen Fletcher Ozawa's mighty arms spread a symphony across the lawn. In waves, notes float out from Shed light to heavy pines. The Mahler melts and drips on me like collected rain from maple leaves after a passed storm, and I lift my face to be washed. Brass broader than the Berkshires surrounds my blanket. I absorb it through my pores, swallow passages whole, inhale great gulps of notes deep to a place where they grow and expand like a balloon inside me that finally explodes, and I become little pieces of light that hang in the sky above the hills.

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