In the Hira Mountains, beech trees will soon come into leaf, high up above our steps.
At the mountain foot, a lot of edible wild plants - white, yellow, green, brown…
trail
on the unmelted snow -
morning sunrays
The caterpillar -
Such a courageous venture
To cross the pavement.
(Kamome)
the cherry blossom party rescheduled. the trees aren’t cooperatingーthey haven’t come to a consensus. the city has hung lanterns in the supposedly good locations; but for now, the decorations look better than what is expected of the scenery.
morning rainー
wild ducks standing
in the shallow river
.
First breath of spring. Cycling down the Katsura River; wisps of green willows coming out. I’m winding through a stretch of illegal allotments when, descending from above towards me, it zo-o-o-o-oms over my head: a motor paraglider! Banks twice sharply … and drops down into an empty ground. I turn my bicycle around and race back.
A crowd of five – one, a dog – has gathered there. We watch him switch off the fan motor on his back, unclip and then lay out the red and white sail. 35 kilograms for the motor pack, and not much extra for the parachute and strings: this is what I’m told. His name – he dropped into my life – Mr. Fukiage, meaning ‘Blown Aloft’. I receive a card from a smiley face with greyish hair and give him mine. He immediately seems to expect of me discipleship. He’ll call me before the next paraglide rally, so I can try it out. I thank him and cycle back upstream, imagining I am flying along above myself looking down.
Outside the homeless person’s hut
both cat and crow asleep -
Straps are tugged and adjusted to better fit my larger frame. And now I have all the strings in my hands, coded into clusters of red and yellow and blue. Through tugs of the inflating sail I can become my own marionette! But what of the wind? Mr. Blown-Aloft has planted his own pole-top windsock on a grassy bank at the edge of the ground. “Watch it!”, he says. It begins to swim. But B-A tells me too much and all at once – and, time and again the nylon fills, tugging me upwards, only for one tip of my wing to inexplicably wilt, upset the balance, causing the parachute to rear up on its end, before collapsing to the ground in a limp tangle, which my teacher kindly realigns.
Then, once – just once – the sail fills evenly, and with a tug on the blue ropes, I hold it straight. What young eagles on their cliff-side eyrie must feel when they stand with their downy wings open testing an updraft, I now feel leaning back with all my strings tautened by the wind. It would only be a hop to travel 50 yards or more. One hand on my harness, Mr. Blown-Aloft holds me back.
Cycling over the bridge
… the lights turn green:
… … it sped on ahead,
the first swallow!
just one face
in the spring sunshine …
my love for you
Gabi from Okayama
the traditional-style japanese houses on my block seem to be quickly demolished as soon as they’re sold. reduced to lots big enough to squeeze two or three prefabs onto them. young familes are snapping them up.
in the unfriendly neighbor’s yard
the plum blossoms
have fallen
Winter has never been my season. In the order of Like, it’s springsummerfall, any weather, winter. The cold requires too many layers of cloth, natural and now man-made, both Western and Oriental (think: hara-maki).For males, mostly, there is the additional protection of facial hair. A full beard does add necessary and efficient protection against lower temperatures. (We can also store morsels there for snacks later.) But, alas, it does itch when the air temp gets higher. So, from about these days, the hairs begin to fall off, area-by-area. My new avatar shows Offness in two respects, the most important being the missing chin stuff. As April proceeds into Hot, the moustache will drop and I will upload a close view of my upper lip, perhaps. To celebrate this:
birds redo plumage,
cats shed everywhere,
bare chins view spring anew.
This year my cherry blossom viewing will be of the Japanese variety, but on the Potomac, not the Kamo. No singing and drinking parties beneath the boughs, either. If there were, the highest murder rate would only grow higher. Ducking drunken tunes is better than ducking sniper fire, true, but a job is a job, so off I go momentarily.
spring blossoms’ faint smell
mixed with gun smoke -
New World blend’s not a poem.
At her homestay’s end
We hurry to the station
Under Easter hail:
A childless man together
With a fatherless daughter.
(Kamome, with own German translation)
Aufenthaltsende -
Durch grellen Osterhagel
Gehn wir zum Bahnhof:
Ein vaterloses Maedchen
Mit einem kindlosen Mann.
Can you imagine the scene described in my recent haiku, composed at Ochiai by the Hozu Gorge? 保津峡の落合で最近に詠んだ句のイメージを想像できますか。There are several ways the poem could be interpreted. いくつかのとらえ方があると思う。Leave your interpretation as a comment, please. コメントとしてご自分の解釈を残してください（contributorではなくても出来ます）。Let’s see how many we get … どのぐらいの解釈が可能のでしょうか。
eyes
open
another hangover
—
the frost on the window
the sound of the river
the raw fish can be simply mouthwatering when it’s eaten in the right season. white rice and noodles are among the staple foods. certain rice wine, when it’s chilled in the summer, and warmed in the winter, can be heavenly. six years ago i got married here; started a family…
the pacific ocean between us
phone calls to my parents
fewer & fewer
