 In a Welsh village, the last of the local Gypsy musicians has died. The wind is blowing hard at the grave of Laszlo Ferencs, as the priest, a few friends, and four musicians wait for the coffin to be lowered into the ground. The priest s words are difficult to hear in the wind, as is the music of the players. But in the town, the music is blowing in the wind; it descends on and enchants people as they repair a fence, hang clothes to dry, write a letter, knit, or sit for tea. The music breathes rhythm and delight into one and all, including the sexton.