Saturday. The sentinels were out. Today, a steady rain. Monday, the typhoon’s coming.

The neighborhood. The beautiful rice. The beautiful cosmos.

A feathery fellow searching the rice.

A not so feathery fellow searching the rice.

Rice harvested. Rice harvested not.

Some folks harvest with machines. They skip the bundle-and-hang-upside-down step. An organic farmer I know tells me this isn’t wise. For a day or two, she says, more nutrients will flow from the stalk into the grains. More taste, she says passionately, will flow from the stalk into the grains.

And these guys and gals standing tall, watching over. Protecting. I’m hoping they’ll still be standing Monday.

How about these three guys? What are their chances?

I’m not sure what to say, but “Hang in there.” Or maybe, “Just do the best you can. . . . But be careful, too.”

It looks, though, as if it might get rough.

Jii-chan. Standing at the edge of one of our rice paddies, his short-handled sickle down by his side, his wide-brimmed straw hat shading his eyes, the early autumn sun turning the paddy to gold. Red dragonflies darting just above the ears of grain. the ears of grain, heavy, leaning into comfortable arcs, content. And me, looking up at his strong, rugged face.

“The Miyama sun” he says. “The tangerines and kumquats. The persimmons. The vegetables. The soil. We have been so blessed, Kenta. And this rice. Especially this rice. Just look at this beautiful, beautiful rice.”

He bends down. He rips, rips, rips his sickle through the stalks. I help him bunch and bundle them. On tiptoes, I struggle to life the bundles up to the line of wooden poles he has raised. He helps me. The two of us, together, hang the bundles up to dry.

Under the warm autumn sun. Close to heaven.