isaac levitan the watermill at sunset 1880.
there are so many magical sounds. lying inside a tent listening to the sound of rain. the wind whistling through a little opening. leaves rustling in a summer breeze on a hot day. i have a long list . . . .
walking through the nearby woodlot i hear voices - children riding bikes, climbing trees, building forts, playing chase games. what i love is that i can’t see the source of the voices - just the voices, muffled in the leaves and undergrowth. so, even though i know i’m sharing the woods with countless other people, i still feel alone. sharing a space.
wang wei captures this experience in his beautiful poem “deer fence”.
in the empty mountains
i see no one,
but hear the sound
of someone's voice.
enters deep forest,
and shines again
on green moss.
wang wei trans. greg whincup