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LONG WILD RIVER

Standing on the train platform this morning, instead of gazing as I usually do at the sunrise Lake and the wild-shore doings of King Pheasant and his harem, I turned and scanned the mountains that are mist-obscured in great part these early Spring days, like those presumably redundant scenes on the old Japanese byobu (room divider screens). In one part of the range left clear of mist by the hand of the highest artist, I could see amidst the brightening green a zig-zagging streak of peak-blossom cherry trees, that ran like a long wild river of pink down to the foot of the mountain. I had to travel a long way on that river, to get back to my reason for taking a train.