Listening to Mozart’s Requiem While Crossing the San Rafael

The Requiem matched 
the smell of death 
on the leather of my coat, 
and the fear in the music 
lingered 
in the sudden 
stillness 
after canyon echoes 
above the overlook: 
Mozart is dead. 
Mozart is dead. 

The fear in his music 
could still grip my heart 
if I would let it— 
if I could stop looking 
at the eagle on that rock, 
waiting to eat carrion, 
and watching us 
drive past: watching us, 
as we listen to the music 
of Mozart, who is dead. 
Mozart is dead.

Mozart is long dead, 
and his fear could not 
stop death. His music 
might stop the fear 
if it were not 
for the stillness after echoes,
if it were not 
for the finality of carrion,
if it were not 
that Mozart is dead, after all.
Mozart is dead. 

I wonder this: 
How did it go for him? 
How did he feel his death,
and did his music 
echo in his head then 
and match the fear in his heart,
and did the fear linger 
with any part of him 
waiting to hear the others say:
Mozart is dead. 
Mozart is dead.