Then she pointed at the letter. “Look at the second half. ‘The song that rises to my lips / The insects of the woods crushed beneath my shoes in the morning.’ See how it continues, ‘And this tiny heart of mine ceaselessly pumping blood.’ I think these are sounds the writer hears.” “Sounds?” I asked her, then reread the poem. “Don’t you think the writer is describing what he or she is hearing, not seeing?”
