The first words that you're going to hear Doe Paoro sing have something to do with how she's soft, but she's strong. She's soft like the wool that's beneath the wolf suit that she's wearing. She's hardly soft. She's more the wolf, not the suit. She's got drops of blood sprinkled in the fur around her mouth as well as on other parts of the body that have been hijacked or jumped. She will enter herself into the fight if that's what it's going to take. The New Yorker's music is something like the color and shape of a sky that you just can't place a name to.
It's the depiction of the grounds of a cemetery and the grounds of a nursery, the depiction of a long summer's night, the depiction of a tense couple of hours waiting for a phone call that you don't want to take, the depiction of a bear's claw about to slash, the depiction of a rabbit's lair, warm and lined with new bunnies, their paws, their tails and whiskers, the depiction of helplessness, or of resiliency, the depiction of a ringing pink-ish/orange and air, the depiction of huge, greedy gulps and choking sighs, the depiction of waterfalls of hair and lemonade, the depiction of the balance beams and tightropes that we always walk but never realize, the depiction of slow and steady hands that seek to straighten out crooked and weakened backs and shoulders, the depiction of tired feet that are just free from tight shoes, the depiction of magical forces that bring and steal love. We settle on feathery. Or sky.