Woke up with these lines from Philip Larkin’s poem “Broadcast” in my head:
… desperate to pick out
Your hands, tiny in all that air …
He’s listening to a radio broadcast of a concert, and he’s trying to pick out the sounds of his lover’s hands amid the thousands of hands clapping after the performance. UD of course will be watching a television broadcast of the Super Bowl, and trying to pick out the face of her daughter, tiny in all that air …