The musicians tune their instruments to call in the cows. The usual sounds of morning in the city. Voices of violins clear their throats in endlessly sustained strokes over by the bakehouse. The funky chest bone-rattling bass notes reverberate on the banks of Main Stream while the solar amps buzz like wild honeybees in their heavy flights.
Most human people in the city enjoy the daybreak battle of the bands. Calling in the cows is part of the joys of living in the city. As natural as songbirds berating each other. There would always be some friendly rivalries between musicians, both for prestigious places to set up and play and, of course, for the affection of their devoted public.
Auntie Owen helps his kids set up their thunderclap band outside his household’s front door. He plucks a single tuft of cotton from a nearby patch, then worries out the cottonseeds for later. After forming the white lint into protective buds, he puts them in his ears and gives the debut band a you-got-this gesture. Ten-year-old Geremiah grins nervously behind his drum kit; thirteen-year-old Noora adjusts the reverb effects on her cello mic.
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