At long last, the rain has let up, and everyone has come out to play.
It’s the season of the spider lily.
The spider lily loves it when the rice matures, when the ears of grain arc. He never misses it, year after year after year.
The rice is feeling content. A job well done.
And the white heron appreciates the farmers cutting the rice. Easy pickings.
The spider lilies hug the rice fields—and the streams, too.
The yellow flowers wonder if Vincent van Gogh will be out and about today.
The spider lilies like to gaze, not only on the rice, but on Ryuso Mountain and the blue sky.
Ryuso Mountain and the blue sky love to gaze down upon the rice. A little bit, Ryuso envies the green and the yellow of the fields. Me, too.
“Down” in this case is a mere direction. Not an attitude.
Who wouldn’t want to kiss it all?
The mikans bask.
The crows stay high—checking out all the hubub.
And what a hubub it is!
All the mingling and tingling.
Go ahead stretch your arms to the sky. Relish in it. Let loose a barbaric yawp or two.