When I am driving in the country at night the same words will always pop into my head. I look at the white line disappearing past my headlights and I think, “The road was a ribbon of moonlight.” This line has been on repeat ever since I had to memorize a few stanzas of The Highwayman, Alfred Noyes's sentimental narrative poem from 1906, when I was about 13. Anyone who has had to memorize poems will have those lines suddenly superimpose themselves over the most banal of images, forever. This month, looking at the muddy garden or the slick street, I have barely stopped intoning, “Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote, The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,” because that is how I actually see the muddy garden, now, knowing those lines: through sound.