At dawn the masters gather.
Gravel holds the last of the night.
An old wooden door waits,
its hinge swollen with years.
The student bows.
“Pass through,” says the elder,
“without a sound.”
The body remembers injuries.
The breath remembers fear.
The door remembers winter.
The student listens
until the listening listens to itself.
A foot lowers.
Gravel settles.
A hand rests on wood.
Wood accepts the hand.
The door opens.
Was there sound?
A sparrow lands on the threshold —
its claws strike stone.
The masters look at one another.
One asks,
“Did the student pass?”
Another replies,
“When the sparrow stepped,
who was examined?”
The wind moves the elder’s robe.
It rustles softly.
The student smiles.
Tell me —
when even the teachers are learning,
who is the master of the door?
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