Listening to Schubert's Piano Quintet 'Trout'
I remember reading somewhere
poor Schubert died even younger than you. O my mysterious father,
I’ve seen snapshots
where you are smiling, dangling shining fish from lines. It’s a family tradition
I’m following,
squelching along muddy river banks of celluloid, old reel to reel. I hear
sounds of life in the current,
faint movements under watery time and space, almost certain
there’s something to be seen,
hiding among the reeds, those sweet, fleeting sounds of darting fish.
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