assignmant

     The space slopes from the top, at the ledge with a small brick and stone courtyard dotted with bushes and hydrangeas, down in one graceful curve to the open expanse of gravel. At the top of the hill, where the ski lift usually flows back and forth in the winter, it is cool and the fog hangs heavily and there are stairs that lead to hotels and the lower entrance to the diner. It's grassy and calm and not many people are here at any time in the year. It seems like the kind of place where it should always be raining steadily, deep music playing from everywhere besides just the white canvas tent at the base of the hill. From down there sound does seem to vibrate through every petal on the flowers and every pebble on the ground and every fork in the building and every little dust moat that floats around in the hotel. Were it day time the children in the play ground farther up a ways would be distracted, drawn, lured to the fence and holding on so tightly they think they could slip right through like liquid.
     But no, it's night and it's not really dark here unless you go down one of the many paths that lead to rows and rows of houses that all want to be different but come off painting the same image over their owners' faces. Here on and below the hill it is more of a silver light, though the moon is not the source of the glow, for it is hidden behind layers and layers of glittering fluff in the sky. These also cover any stars, though in the restaurant, little dim lamplights flood out of the window and illuminate more as they get closer. But the light over everything else is silver as if the very atmosphere is fog and it's meant to rain very soon. As bodies, of the musicians, of the children, of the visitors and tourists move around, it feels like mist on their skin. Everything is damp.
     The music from the base of the hill picks up just as thunder rolls around, nearly every time thunder rolls around, and the symbols clap every time there is a flash of light outside, almost as if Beethoven himself is watching from above and willing the toy musicians in the tent to play greatly, to do his music justice. Others are in the tent, sitting on chairs that will fold themselves up later, though these people are without cellos by their side or drums in front of them or flutes poised by their lips. Instead sweaters of bright colors (to break through the constant gloom in the sky) sit on their laps like the chubby felines they've left at home to grumble at the door. Books are in the chairs next to them, thin, laminated books that no one cares to read all the way through, but are very useful for seat-holders. At their feet some have carnival bags, about the size of a sleeping bag full of sticky treats that they got from happy vendors along the side of the highway on the way here. Some have leather bags, knit bags, bags with things in them that they thought they might need while they are out, but never end up using. Two seats are empty. Two girls left early. A few seats are empty in the back because the rain that is now trying to push its way into the tent to hear the music, already dotted them with puddles.  The elderly men that would have taken those are now standing along the outside isles, eyeing those laminated books that refuse to offer up their seat. Though at least one ear in every head is on the music, ignoring the sounds that can only be teenage whooping outside.
     The faces on the stage are intense and as the concert closes, it grows later and the determination in everyone's warm stomachs seem to close up the night.