When I hear a violin in the hand of a master,
it is hard not to think of dead goats and their guts,
or a horse disturbed by its slightly altered tail,
or think of a maple forest grieving one of its own,
or think of discipline, hours and hours of practice.
I think of so much sacrifice; the composer,
the musician, the luthier, the goat, the horse, the tree.
I do not thank the goat, the horse, the forest
as natives would who understand the source.
Instead,
I thank Mozart. I thank Yehudi Menuhin.
I thank Antonio Stradivarius. I thank luthiers
today who keep us high on tight strung strings.
I thank the god Apollo alive deep in my cochlea
for feeding his lust for philharmonic pleasure
and letting me listen while he loves.