On a rainy day, in the mist, you might miss the turnoff . . .

. . . and end up in a place completely new.

On a rainy day, you might see things that are right in front of you . . .

. . . that you wouldn’t have noticed had the sky been blue.

On a rainy day, you might run into folks who, fundamentally, prefer the rain.

霧の中

白さ際立つ

やまぼうし

On a rainy day, the white flowers of the yamaboushi tree might poke their heads out from the grey . . . just to entice you.

On a rainy day, you might not worry about the spray coming off the waterfall.

On a rainy day, on your way home, you might remember the lotus pond.

On a rainy day, you might imagine each lotus leaf a giant pitcher in a giant hall, with a grand feast in progress, and when each pitcher grows heavy with the puddling water and finally tips over and you hear the water gurgling down into the pond, you might imagine a throat thoroughly quinched. Or you might imagine—well, it’s up to you—you could imagine anything.

That puddling water in those elephantine lotus leaves might remind you of your mother’s favorite crystal, the one she always asked you to be careful with.

Or you might (whether you’re eight, or eighty-eight) imagine that someone, someone special, has opened up a jewelry box, and there, before your eyes, is a diamond pendant . . . no, no, no, not a diamond pendant, it’s more lovely than that.

You might imagine how it will feel resting upon your breast.

And those flowers, beaded with rain drops, might make you think, “And from this muddy muck!”

On a rainy day.

＊＊＊Japanese haiku a joint effort from yours truly and Tammy Tam (a tremendous member of the Hearty Hiker team). A rough translation: “In the mist . . . the stark white . . . of the yamaboushi flowers.”