(Edited with jo(e)'s comment in mind.)
His hair hangs into his eyes, lank as his slender body. He climbs the stairs into the chancel and reaches for the clarinet lying on the organ console. He tongues the reed, then touches the music on the stand, a superstitious gesture.
He takes a breath and begins. His slender fingers nimbly scale the keys. He breathes more than air into his horn. He pours himself in; out comes a mellow, limber melody.
The notes rise higher in the descant; the clarinet's voice changes. Notes high and sweet sing of inaccessible divine, hid from our eyes.
They move together, the boy and his horn, the breath and the bone, the reed and the reedy.