Wednesday, September 08, 2004


Dawn walk through cascades of birdsong and crickets trilling the last of the dark, saw the heavy riceheads drooping awaiting harvest and far beyond them in the ukiyoe mist, across the lake the long swath of shore severed from its purple mountains, Mikamiyama floating there above the thin line of clouds more stirringly beautiful than on any ancient folding screen, in air graced by perfumes of morning borne on the remnant breath of night-- mingled scents of wild herbs, wet earth, moist grain, rich sweetgrape fragrance of flowering kuzu-- and along the way, there by a rust-red tree stump in the forest atmosphere a silent dance of two large feathery insects whirling before and against each other spinning, palping, swirling just and only there, ephemera of passion as real as our own, spelled just this way in sunrise


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