"Excuse me," the roshi said,
removing his earphone,
"I was just listening to some honkyoku
and thinking about a wandering monk I knew
whose passion was collecting sounds
on a Sony digital tape recorder. He played me
wind high in the Rockies, surging through aspens,
the magnified sound
of an ant climbing a rock wall.
But my favorite sound
was of his voice, explaining
the sound of hand-drawn curtains
on an old curtain rod,
metal scraping metal, very lightly."
[via poetry daily]