The nuances of sound that a highly skilled tuner must be able to distinguish and what I myself had been brought up with were worlds apart. The soft hotohoto-plunk of ripe chestnuts falling to the forest floor. The rustling sharashara of leaves brushing against each other. The chorochoro trickle of snow sliding down the lengths of a thousand creaking branches. I’m not able to illustrate those sounds quite precisely enough in words: the ear recognizes sounds far beyond what can be expressed through simple onomatopoeia.
