Pathway to Japanese Literature

Mount Fuji at Dawn

At the dawn of creation when heaven and earth first split asunder, Mount Fuji came into being—a white-clad wondrous peak spanning Suruga and Kai provinces, its base spreading eightfold across the land. Anchored deep and wide through eternal roots, this snow-crowned summit soared so magnificently that its stern yet righteous visage defied comparison: a form divine since antiquity, its sacred essence enduring now as though aged into permanence by gods themselves.

By chance I journeyed forth; pausing mid-path to glance back, when together with wife we came to gaze reverently—Ah! How fearsome! The blazing sun grew indistinguishable as dusk deepened, clouds coiling to shroud it whole. Thunder roared while blue lightning pillars flared—flames leaping instantly from fire columns—and rumbling hailstones came flying.

At Gotemba’s station road—having slept through midnight’s depth—in outdoor darkness still profound, already awakened hound packs stirred vigorously: chains clanking as they leapt and barked urgently. Ah—those must be young lords of dawn’s hunt! With clamorous haste they descended amid commotion; thus they surely departed.

The deafening detonation of automobiles and throaty blare of horns pierced frost-congealed night with crystalline sharpness—then all careened wildly away into void.

A marrow-chilling draft seeped through door cracks—yet even so dawn approached.

Eyes opening to dawn-proclaiming birds crying with endless breath—echoes answering formlessly—foothills quaked resonant; thus I awoke finding myself present; eyes opened confirming existence.

Craning neck intently—swirling fog thick as paste; valley forests; ridge folds still darkly foreboding; shrill distant howls; rapid gunfire piercing lingering pre-dawn gloom.

Even as heart overflowed with awe—swaying beyond containment—peering through revealed whirling mists above: lapis lazuli clouds drifting amidst countless starry strings like millet beads—Ah! There stood Mount Fuji! The white-clad Mount Fuji! Now at this very moment emerged in pristine clarity robed in dawn’s purest purple hues.

A dream? No—this was truth revealed.
No dream—reality unveiled.
“Wake up! Wake up!”
Behold—this was truly Fuji of Hinomoto’s Land of Sunrises! Konohanasakuyahime’s divine presence enshrined herself within this sacred peak’s stillness! See how near it drew now—dawn breaking clear before our eyes.
Urging “Wake up,” he shook his wife; calling “Awaken,” he roused her again.They rinsed their mouths,purified their bodies,and pressed sleeves together shivering—drawing close in solemn unison until wholly absorbed in gazing.
A moment came.
As time passed faintly,the mountain’s edge brightened—dawn’s pale birch hues illuminating tranquil air.Was this pre-sunrise?Morning crows?Two birds took flight together,wings slicing wind as their undersides deepened crimson.
Flapping noisily,two mountain doves raced onward.
When my wife became one who gazes,the very flying birds seemed drawn into procession.“How joyful,” she said while watching.I too smiled and gazed.
Thus Fuji’s lotus-like form emerged from pale crimson shadows into crystalline clarity—its summit blazing redder still,a glossy vermilion glow radiating.
Looking closely,something faint billowed high above.
Though blizzards raged aloft,faint snow-smoke rose ceaselessly—endless plumes swirling upward.
Ever redder upon redder,the flame-like snow ascended heavenward along celestial paths—vanishing endlessly without pause.
Ah! That solemnity! This radiance!
Gazing endlessly,yet never sated—it defied capture by word or brush.
Ah,awe-struck!Fuji—sacred peak steadying Hinomoto’s land!Divine wonder beyond measure!Rarely had we glimpsed this summit,yet dawn revealed it anew.Here I stood with none but my wife—tears flowing beyond speech.

Song of the Distant Mountain Range

To the north of Kamuro in Kozuke, where Myogi and Arasune pierced the heavens—when he stepped out to gaze dimly into the distance, when he strained to see as dusk deepened—ever more distant grew the mountain range, ever higher rose its peaks; ascending further still into the sky, ever colder fold upon fold they layered—layer upon layer, fold upon fold—until at last they vanished into the realm of clouds.
Though it was but a fleeting journey, when evening came, he could no longer bear staying indoors and went out to be alone.
The wind blowing toward me from the river rapids; in the freezing river wind, the high cliff I traversed facing forward; the distant northern mountain range I beheld.
Winter’s early silk-gloss cirrus unfurled in rippling bands; ice-congealed stratus crowded together—layered clouds, patina-gold masses, underlit veils indistinguishable from dim-glowing mountains. Even what should have been clear remained elusive; even what should have ended knew no bounds—until fanning rays of sunlight pierced through, countless rainbows cascading downward.
Flickering pale light, patina-platinum streaks—upon dark and light peaks’ layered folds, upon mountains’ crisscrossed small creases—blended softly with rain and poured down: a soft golden mist.
Ah, distant—so distant the mountain range! Ah, lofty—so lofty the mountain range! Gazing fixedly, yet it did not fade; rubbing weary eyes brought no relief, shielding his gaze to peer into the distance—an ever more desolate pale sunbow; then looking again—still farther beyond—ever higher the snows of serried peaks, ever more distant the snows of serried peaks—piercingly cold and ceaselessly they stretched on, shimmering without end.

Bamboo and Red Spider Lilies

In the bamboo grove at our gate，red spider lilies bloomed crimson．
At each bamboo root，these blossoms clustered six or sevenfold，their numbers swelling day by day．
Eerily crimson curling tendrils—filigree-thin lotus-like blossoms—burst forth in profusion；beholding these flowers，autumn itself clarified into purity，and the wind grew ever more desolate．
The neighboring temple’s ancient graves basked in lingering warmth，yet no shadows stooped to sweep tombs nor approached to draw water from the well．
Ah，wondrous Mahāmanjushaka—the great red spider lilies！Coming and going，I gazed alone；at times with my wife I gazed．“Yesterday they multiplied abundantly，”I observed，“and still today they blazed crimson．”
Because of the Moso bamboo’s drooping leaves，though the sun shone，I was ever passing through this gloomy thicket where I dwelled．
Though desolate，I had grown accustomed to its play．
The ease of mountain dwelling lay in hearing waves through the thicket and delighting in village festival music—yet after Segaki had passed，desolation lingered starkly；now，with no visitors to endure it，I stepped out again to see bamboo roots where red spider lilies blazed crimson-crimson．A wild fox with slanted eyes glanced sidelong—back turned，pointed muzzle aimed—blowing through the underbrush；in the blowing wind，at day’s end—ah！—it leaped and scattered，vanishing yet never quite disappearing．

Song of the Bamboo Grove

In the bamboo grove after the rain, when the evening light glimmered, at each damp root of the bamboo, something lay scattered, glowing intensely.
At each of those joints, something pooled and glowed.
Upon the yellow-green leaves of that bamboo grass, something swayed and glimmered.
The golden glimmering things, intricate and seeping into vision—after the rain had cleansed them, they swayed with exceptional beauty; in the desolate act of watching, their vanishing only heightened their loveliness.
Even if they swayed—simply watching; even if they vanished—watching still—persisting until day’s end lingered on steeped in loneliness.
In the evening light of our dwelling’s bamboo grove, when we listened to the pine winds from the back mountain, there was warmth.

Song of the Evening Cicada

The evening cicadas cried in succession.
There were two.
Their cries continued.
When the two ceased crying, others from this side began their cries anew.
A single one cried on.
Moso bamboo stood in a slant of sunlight.
Mountain pines basked in distant sunlight.
Over there stretched a glittering sea; over here drifted mountain mist; at the mountain's edge, the Segaki ritual neared its conclusion—such was the season.
In the golden, slantless clarity of autumn sunlight, evening cicadas cried ceaselessly.
They cried in urgent cadence.
Two cried, one cried, then alternately their cries quickened.

Two evening cicadas cried; another joined in alternation.

Autumn in the Hot Spring Town

How intimate the sunlight here.
How diffuse the hot spring steam.
In the direction of the sunlit field stood a zelkova tree, and beside it was a single spotted cow.
It was tethered peacefully.
Autumn in the mountain valley hot spring town.
When one stepped out to look, there was also a child crossing the small bridge below with a cane.
The drooping rice plants yellowed across the paddies, where sparrows flocked intermittently; in the thatched cottage’s garden along the road, white chrysanthemums bloomed in profusion; seeing sesame and chestnuts laid out to dry with such leisurely care—today felt remarkably tranquil.
The mountain where the sun cast its westward shadows—still bright and warm; the white cotton clouds in that sky; even the flitting birds—all appeared profoundly poignant to behold.
Having come with my wife, we two having come and stayed for seven days until accustomed, this became the view near and far of maples gradually taking on their autumn hues.
Ah, how profoundly intimate the sunlight here.
How diffuse the hot spring steam.
In the direction of the sunlit field stood a zelkova tree, and in the shade of the zelkova was a single spotted cow.
Tethered, it did nothing but steadily munch on grass.

Song of the Autumn Mountain

The miscanthus of the autumn mountain's mystery—lined in rows—swayed and shimmered.
The miscanthus at the edge of an unnamed grassy autumn mountain—their plumes swayed and shimmered.
That evening, I went out to look—viewed the crags, crossed the log bridge with my wife—and when we looked again, they still shimmered.
There were people cutting the miscanthus too.
There were others carrying it down on their backs.
Having descended and come down, as they passed by with their rustling burdens, the miscanthus on their backs shimmered once more.
In the sunlit space of a gorge where white clouds floated, even the tiny winged insects flitting about—when observed closely—each bore life, dancing alight.
It was tranquil, simply peaceful—still bathed in deep sunlight.
It was neither hot nor cold—still a warm day's fading light.
The miscanthus behind the hot spring town—on the autumn mountain's soft grassy slopes, rustling here and there with their plumes—when I came to see today, swayed and shimmered.
Ah, how wondrous—I gazed too; my wife emerged too; the two of us beheld the rustling miscanthus—that rustling miscanthus.

The Hill’s Spear Cedars

At the enigmatic edge of the hill near our dwelling, several cedars had gathered; rustling, they stood clustered. A cluster of spear cedars—arranged like spears—when seen in this dawning clarity: under skies where mist deepened and drizzles fell, they hazed the air; amidst fog-rising heavens, ever blacker their towering forms grew, ever more heavily they settled below, ever more anciently they stood arrayed—all these cedars akin to ink-painted pines, chillingly solemn at first glance, imposing and austere, lonely yet sublime. Ah, how wondrous—the Hill’s Spear Cedars; clusters of dwarf bamboo here and there; persimmon foliage; plum branch vines—all displayed their varied hues, yet drenched in the Tenth Month’s final rains, their leaves neither withered nor fell, neither thinned nor faded. Only their surfaces faintly crimsoned to velvet burnt-tea tones, while beneath they deepened into black or blue-green hues, enduring timelessly in aged stillness. A figure lonely yet lonelier still, a heart enduring endlessly to stand eternal. Ah, wondrous—winter’s spear cedars, hill’s spear cedars near the sea! In the mist-swirls born of cedars, neither endless ocean nor heaven’s breadth could be discerned. At times, stray migrant birds scattered down in disarray; even a lone crow, wings weighted, haltingly approached to sway among them. Ah, wondrous—the rain-drenched spear cedars, when gazed upon, swayed faintly; in the falling rain swayed faintly, emitting only their rustling sound.

Japanese Torreya and Chestnut

Denshōji, a small old temple—in its mountain cemetery, Japanese torreyas and chestnut trees stood side by side.
Having stood side by side, they had grown old together.
The Japanese torreya tree stood beside the chestnut tree; the chestnut tree, weathered desolately near the torreya, had already grown old.
O Japanese torreya, since when had you aged? O chestnut, from what time had you stood?
The Japanese torreya and chestnut, weathered and weathered with age—still their flowers had bloomed.
Each year they had borne flowers.
The Japanese torreya bore faint flowers; the chestnut tree bore dewdrop-like blossoms. On that torreya grew small torreya nuts; on this chestnut grew chestnut's green husks—when winds blew, even these nuts and husks would one day scatter and fall.
Withered and withered away, they returned to the soil.

There was no one to see them, no one to know them.
People visiting the temple and graves would occasionally crouch as they passed by, yet none looked up or took notice; only the two trees stood there—the Japanese torreya and chestnut—weathering desolately.
Ah wondrous—the Japanese torreya and chestnut trees: though the leaf-shedding chestnut endured cold, the evergreen torreya stood tall under winter’s sun rendered especially lofty.
The chestnut tree grew ever more skeletal while the Japanese torreya darkened further still, bathed in Hakone’s waning sunlight as it stood sharply alone.
Blacker yet it endured alone.
On days when rain mingled with sleet and nights when wind whipped through flying snow, it stood freezing and shivering.
It stood intimately and endured.
Ah wondrous—these two aged trees standing side by side; seeing their lonely neighboring forms—so helpless in their paired existence—one could not help but shed tears.

Moso Bamboo and the Moon

Something rustled and swayed.
Midnight deepened, and something stirred.
Outside my window’s glass panes—when gazed through—freezing clouds raced ceaselessly, casting shadows by the moon.
Though the full moon hung round, the moon—pale and shadowed—grew thinner as it tilted; ah, how coldly swayed the bamboo.
Piercing through the layered droop of Moso bamboo’s heavy cascades, a lone prominence swayed.
Eyes had opened—or perhaps the night wind arose—rustling and swaying playfully.
Drooping as they swayed forward and back, dappled light and shadow danced playfully.
Though the full moon hung round, pale and shadowed amidst flying cumulus clouds, there were moments when it suddenly brightened as gaps formed between them.
Visibly rustling rustle rustle—the illuminated Moso bamboo’s, ah, how intensely strong in that uncanny moonlight—seemed alive and dancing, with nearby light making it dance vigorously; yet just as one thought so, something dimmed and shadows faintly emerged—the swaying halted, then stirred restlessly.
Ah, this night—the night birds did not cry, and the neighboring temple in the thicket’s shadow had silently locked its storm shutters.
At times, only the sound of river rapids and waves resonated in unison.
It was merely distant, alien.
Ah, how wondrous—in this mountain night, something had stirred awake in the darkness; not I alone—there was a swaying presence.
Swaying softly, playing alone—swaying softly beyond my sight—it rustled again with sound.

Winter Mountain Crags

The jeweled-comb mountains of Hakone grew ever shorter with the waning days; when midwinter arrived and frost descended, noon passed without trace of the sun.
Though the mountains across were bright, the crags of this high mountain here knew only cold winds and falling leaves.
Already the soil had hardened; beneath the rock ferns at the cliff’s edge, icicles steadily formed among the roots of withered miscellaneous trees.
Snapping off icicles with crisp cracks, crunching them as they went—ah, how cold—bitterly cold it was!
“It’s cold too,” said my wife.
On the high cliff where the two walked, what branch—transparent—finely glistened with glossy black fruits.
When one gazed upward and peered through, in the blue of the high, clear sky there were clouds racing keenly—and others fading faintly away.
A long-tailed bird flew crying out, then faltered in its flight; as someone crouched and gazed—ah, how cold—a single crimson light blazed forth from the darkness of maple leaves and spear cedars at the stream’s edge.
That crimson light was reflected in the maple-leaf pool.
A solitude and silence unseen by others.
Below them lay scattered rocks, and those rocks too stood dimly.
Winter was profoundly dim.
Ah, how wondrous—the zelkova’s withered tree towered ever higher before our eyes as we walked; the waterfall plunged, its mottled light swift as the sun.
Ah, how wondrous—the mountain ridge’s pale sunlight.
Looking down, there was already Tōnosawa—its hot spring’s fragrant steam rising thickly, flickering lamps visible here and there.
We saw the sea now, and fishing fires were lit.
These crags—the familiar mountain crags—were no distant journey we’d undertaken, nor a path we hastened along.
Our words did not take form, nor were we newly joined companions; we two simply walked in silence, dusk fell in silence, and once more we descended the homeward path.
They simply descended.

Winter Terraced Fields

The winter terraced fields of Okubo were terraced fields of deep joy.
Weathered through and through, luminous terraced fields.
Here and there lay mustard-yellow harvested plots; adzuki-red hues; warm tones; coffee-dark soil faintly dampened.
In the lower fields clustered several Inamura Shirogane hat-like shapes in harmony; the upper fields bore green striations where barley barely sprouted.
Through those fields moved a flock of birds; after meticulously shaking their tail feathers, they took flight skyward.
Ah, cold—the wagtail swarm fluttered about yet left no impression on the eye.
Somewhere a bulbul cried out, yet the wind’s clamor drowned its voice.
In the low-slanting sunlight stood a quiet thatched roof—submerged in aged purple—within a garden devoid of people, though persimmons hung visible at every back door.
The path climbing the rear hill appeared as a Moso bamboo grove; in sunlit clearings above that thicket moved people plucking mikan oranges into view.
Voices rose loud as they spoke, flint-struck tobacco fires flickering bright.

As the air grew rarer and clearer—dead leaves of sawtooth oak near and far, autumn-tinted grasses, glittering pampas grass—all lay tranquil thus. Ah, how wondrous: here in Okubo’s terraced fields—bright yet ancient, joyful yet winter-stricken—the flock of birds soared in that sky, wagtails’ pale yellow tail feathers rippled like waves, their shadows never pausing, never pausing.

Rough Waves and Plovers

Isonaga’s gently shifting beach—this shore where rough waves towered high.
Around this night, they grew ever higher.
The storm persisted, the west wind fierce; night fell without even a fishing fire in sight. At times rain swept through, and in the blue flash of lightning, the thorn-like branches of key-shaped flames cast piercingly sharp light.
Immediately roared the rolling waves.
At times even hail flew—what birds were these thrown into disarray?
What birds were these that scattered and scattered?
When seen, they were beyond counting; when heard, they vanished as soon as they cried—plovers wailing plaintively in unison: Countless Plovers, Rough-Wave Plovers.
Over the storm-waved sky’s cresting expanse, knowing neither how to alight nor rest, they flew ceaselessly—scattering plovers.
This sea—its bounds unknowable; this tempest—its measure unfathomable; past midnight’s depth toward dawn’s approach, plovers beat wings through profound darkness; plovers drenched in rain and lightning, scattering in disarray.
Some voices strayed far, some flocks formed plover-shaped patterns; others faced landward, others scattered in all directions; some skimmed downward, startling to fly over waves—at times vanishing, at times glowing—growing ever darker and fearful, stained increasingly blue; plovers ceaselessly crying together, plovers wailing frozen cries.
How long would they wander utterly lost? How long would they fly without rest?

Isonaga’s faintly shifting rough waves—plovers.
The roaring of rough waves—sky-striking, churning backward—rose upward; ah, how pitiful! Again they scattered in all directions, thrown into chaos by lightning’s blue menace.
They cried in chaotic unison.

Song of Fallen Leaves

This mountain crag where one walked alone was damp with only gathered fallen leaves.
As one trod through fallen leaves, somewhere a bulbul took flight, striking a high note.
Rustling, the withered oak leaves near me made their sound once more.
On the sunny-side grass-covered cliff with pampas grass, fallen leaves clung to their plumes.
The autumn grasses still retained warmth, yet fallen leaves stirred upon them.
The opposite mountain, this small hill—all that met the eye were dead trees.
When one saw the creaking waterwheel—a red horse on the upper ridge shaking its mane, a horse groom blown along whistling—all were things of that cold winter.
The chairs of the small teahouse above the stream were piled with autumn leaves, and over that stream, fallen leaves fluttered down scattering.
In the mountain hollows, clusters of thatched huts; when one saw the waterwheel turning, the water too had grown meager.
The zelkova plain lay cold to the eye; as one entered where sunlight grew thin, fallen leaves scattered like rain.
Upon closer look they grew ever thicker.
Rustling ever louder growing ever lonelier.
Rustling along the mixed-wood ridge path taking diverging trails—even here the end remained unknown—yielding to wind and wandering steps wherever they went—only fallen leaves.
Ahead and behind—only fallen leaves; rustling then fluttering filling sky and earth with sound alone.

Fallen Leaves Lament

The moon shone brilliantly, yet fallen leaves flew like rain—ah!
Ah, fallen leaves—seeing their shadows, autumn too must have swiftly aged.
Ah, fallen leaves—hearing their rustle, winter’s approach felt inevitable.
Neither was this body called aged, nor was one still young.
The clarity was not the light that dazzled the eyes on such a night.
Though the cedar grove remained green, the neighboring mountain had already thinned.
Through the branches of withered trees, the moon appeared merely distant; fallen leaves, blown by the wind, rustled ceaselessly without end.
When would that day return? In what era did eternity reside?
Behold—in this impermanent world where years shifted as they willed, I existed, I existed, yet unknowingly looked only backward.
Still, still—the path ahead felt dauntingly distant.
And yet, still I had erred.
I wept in profound shame.
Yet I could neither resign myself nor glimpse any harmonious enlightenment; knowing myself but slightly, I could only endure and yield.
And so, gradually, it had come to this.
I had grown ever lonelier.
Even if I could not endure it utterly—this desolation, this solitude I’d made my own—it remained at least a reliance, a thing merely to cling to and safeguard.
Alone, I would dwell on thoughts.
Now alone, I would walk on and on.
Ah, pitiable end of ends—I must be fallen leaves scattering.
If we were fallen leaves, let us yield to the wind.

Under the shining moon, in the northern mountain wind, amid the night storm—let shadows remain shadows, fluttering, just fluttering, let there be only voices.

“I too shall leave it to you, Issa-bō.”

Daffodils and Chrysanthemums

The silk gauze of the window curtain; beyond the glass door, the short day; the short day’s slanting sunlight.
The silk gauze of the window curtain; the daffodils and chrysanthemums in its shade; the thin glass vase on the plant stand.
The single-layered daffodils that had bloomed that morning; the winter chrysanthemums planted on some forgotten day.
Cold white daffodils; faintly warm yellow winter chrysanthemums.
The daffodil’s green leaves spread wide; the winter chrysanthemum’s leaves lay half-withered.
Daffodils cast daffodil shadows; winter chrysanthemums cast winter chrysanthemum shadows; that vase too became a glass shadow upon the chestnut-hued sand wall.
The glass lay transparent, piercing through window gauze; where slanted sunlight burned brightest, winter still appeared serene—no treacherous shadows here—softly intimate it seemed.
The thin glass shadow quivered too.
In the second-floor study where I sat with my wife, afternoon passed in utter stillness.
Steam from the boiling kettle; smoke from the tobacco I smoked—these too swayed upon that wall.
My wife’s shadow lingered there; mine too remained.
The daffodils and winter chrysanthemums—viewed directly in their true forms—how achingly poignant they were then.
Their shadows—observed as substanceless reflections—held no reality at all; how desolate they seemed.

The nearby cries of a soaring bulbul, the distant resonance of waves.
Who claims the world endures unchanged? I could no longer consider it eternal or dear.
Though we dwelt apart from society in these mountains, we did not wholly despise the world; though its clamor pressed keenly upon me, when visitors ceased coming there remained nothing to be done. My wife and I stayed together here, yet even so there were moments when loneliness grew so profound our eyes could not meet.

Bamboo Grove in Early Spring

In the bamboo grove of my hermitage, the misty rain lingered damply again that morning.
It was the misty rain of early spring.
It was a rain that fell unseen.
The misty rain lingered among the bamboo grass; when incense was burned, its fragrance dampened—nothing stirred, only brightness remained.
The misty rain did nothing but cling minutely; the incense smoke did nothing but trail hazily.
It was quiet, only peaceful. When I peered out intently, a bush warbler sang, white-eyes drew near, and bamboo leaves swayed and swayed before departing.
The fallen leaves of last year, though desolate, knew no cold; somehow, the green of spring already stirred at the bamboo roots.
If this good dampness continued its soaking, bamboo grass, kudzu, and butterbur shoots would sprout forth unbidden in profusion.
Higenaga thicket konnyaku and violets, among others, would soon bloom.
Though the sound of wind through pines quieted, this desolation held no strangeness.
Along the rugged ascents and descents of the back hollows, even horses passing sporadically now and then bore patches of blue lichen, while the loud-voiced people’s conversations, though dampened, grew familiar as they journeyed on.
Adding Shizukokoro incense, and so today too was peaceful indeed.
Like the misty rain falling, meticulously, tenderly—my thoughts of early spring.

On New Year’s Night

Ah careless—I let out a sigh.
“Don’t dwell on it—there’s nothing to speak of.”
“And now—let us prepare roasted brown rice tea.”
“Let us talk of the coming spring… of daffodils… and of the child soon to be born.”

The profound stillness of this New Year’s night.
As we who dwell in the mountains know no marked change in our days—yet today stood exceptionally, exceptionally fine.
It was truly quiet now.
What more could one possibly say now?
The tranquility of this night’s depth—it must have been the gods alone who safeguarded it.
In heart-satisfying joy, I thought only of poetry; you peered in.
It was tranquil; it was simply poignant.
Only the sound of the brush moving existed.
A slight shift; breath alone sounded.
If that was so, then the night too must soon end.
“Ah—listen! A rooster seems to crow.”
“Listen again—the sound of waves is here.”
The two of us merely remained awake like this—truly now, we were only two. How naturally the breaths of our two lives met.
How intimately they passed through one another.
Let us peel a mandarin orange.
We sat closely facing the fire.
We added a little more charcoal and then waited.
The crimson sunrise over the sea on the morning of the second day.

Butterbur Sprouts

Fresh butterbur sprouts—how they stirred.
A rare bitterness arose in their scent.
Skewering one sprout then two then three onto a slender bamboo stick; coating them with miso; grilling them over flames—"How bitter!" I ate one; "How savory!" I ate two; "How cherished!" I ate three—then sat murmuring: "Ah... how lonely."
That early spring night held sounds of snow melting—or perhaps not melting at all.
For those moments alone.

“Listen, my wife—something stirs.”

“Listen，my wife—something stirs.”
“Faintly… something falls.”

The night had deepened into profound stillness past the first watch when it began to fall.
Something began to fall.
With a sound, it fell more intensely.
"It must be rain."
"No—it must be snow."
It was snow.
If this was snow, then it was the first snow.
It fell heavily.
Truly, this rare snow fell so heavily—it had begun to fall in earnest.
Rustling once more with a sound, then all was still.
It simply deepened.
"Listen, my wife—this falling snow fills and fills, dancing ever deeper into the darkness, piling ever higher."

A snow of the night amid waves that sounded sporadically.

The croak-croak chorus of frogs.

Early spring’s croak-croak frogs—one croaked, then two, croak-croaking in succession; abruptly fell silent, gave muffled croaks, then suddenly surged back into chorus.
At last, their voices joined in chorus.
The croak-croak frogs in the nearby field—when listened to closely—sang with shifting voices.
At each shift in their voices—ah, how charming—the manner of their singing became visible.
Facing this way and that; leaping about; diving into water; hushing momentarily; inflating their cheeks—the sight of their throats as they croaked and croaked became visible.
Ah, how charming—the frogs in the nearby field.
Verdant wild celery grew damp; perhaps the field ridge remained freshly built.
The voices calling for rain were cold yet not cold; lonely yet somehow laughing.
Frogs called to friends and croaked again, their voices resounding far into the distant fields.
Ah, how poignant—the frogs in the distant fields. When I listened again, they were far removed, separated by the rush of night’s darkness; no—rather, growing distant, their croaks hazing faintly.
Again they drew near, their croaks growing closer.
Like distant waves lapping at the shore, like a distant wind blowing nearer, their voices traveled through the night sky—resounding ever closer, then ceasing, only to resume their chorus again.
The nearby fields too vied to erupt.
The first watch passed and late night deepened; still unceasingly, the voices resounded—likely until dawn broke.

The Sprouting Month’s moon with its circular halo; wispy fleeting clouds near and far; until the drenched, glimmering stars—those myriad specks of light—faded into dawn’s whiteness.
Croak-croak and again croak-croak—throughout the endless night, as if the night were but one—the young frogs of early spring sang with all their voices, again with all their voices, calling here in profusion.