The West Lake Fairy Tale
every tree, every house, seems to have its own light, and the music surges into a crescendo that barely dies away.
I've told the story before, and in a lot of ways it doesn't matter. It is the spectacle that is the thing: the hundred dancers each holding a large white feather
and then the crane flying overhead. The lovers die, but they proceed triumphantly to heaven. Then the lights fade away, and the music too, and the rain which has been threatening all day starts to fall, warm gentle drops.