Kyoto Isshu Trail Haike X – the Final Stretch

Happy with the soft rainy day we were forecast, eight Hailstone haiku hikers assemble by the first giant red torii gateway at Fushimi Inari 伏見稲荷. Morning, April 24^th. We pray for safe completion of the final leg of our two-year Isshu Trail circuit of the Old Capital, then watch a ceremony taking place accompanied by gagaku music.

Three businessmen
blessed by the golden bells
of a shrine maiden—
hissing rain                   David McCullough

A fake but beautiful white sacred horse; a tunnel of vermilion torii arches; ignoring crowd etiquette; an obscure signpost at which we must step away onto a slippery mountain track, reinforced in sections where bamboo forest is being farmed.

Life force—
through the cemented path
a bamboo shoot!          Margarite Westra

A bend where o-misogi waterfall ablution (to massed chanting, some way below us on the right) fuses with the soft, insistent vibrato of hidden frogs (above us on the left): an amazing soundscape! No one’s haiku quite does it justice.

spring rain
on this muddy trail
how refreshingly exciting      Duro Jaiye

The pussy willow
unveils itself:
the path,
a three-pronged fork    Tomiko Nakayama

Identifying new green leaves through smartphone photo searches; coming down into allotments; onions, gone to seed; then backstreets, the most impressive being the old Oiwa Kaido 大岩街道 with its wooden eaves; receiving a call from Kazue in Osaka, wishing us a rainless lunch.

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As witnessed in our haiku, the Trail itself and its comely puddles, has so far been the star… but now we enter the numinous precincts of Oiwa Jinja 大岩神社, with its silent cloud-wrapped forest, its clear black pool, its Aztec-feeling stone torii (designed by Domoto Insho 土本印象), its shy boulders.

After the kingfisher,
Across the pond
The flash of raindrops           Richard Donovan

Below the dripping
rock shrine
cloud loosens its moorings—
the redolent earth!                 Tito

Kazue’s prayer for us works, and as we emerge out of the forest onto the ridge, the rain lets up, and we can luncheon on benches looking over the southern part of Kyoto towards a gently revealed distant Osaka. Sharing of goodies; camaraderie; ascending cloud base; spring flowers. We descend into the landscape… all the way to Momoyama Castle 桃山城.

Distant mountains
wrapped in spring haze—
the last trail sign                     Akihiko Hayashi

Duro’s shoe gives way and has to be tied together with a plastic bag and cord. He squelches on towards our goal, Saiganji Temple 西岸寺, where Basho had once, in spring 1685, sought the blessing of its well-reputed, octogenarian monk, Ninko 任口, and had written:

わが衣に伏見の桃の雫せよ
Peach blossoms of Fushimi,
onto my robe please drop
some of your dew…

Eventually, at the end of many alleys, we find the little temple and, just outside the pavilion of Aburakake Jizo 油かけ地蔵, share our haiku musings before heading off to sample a local sake called ‘Momo no Shizuku’ (Peach Dew) in the Fushimi rice-wine merchants, Aburacho 油長. “Kampai to our completion of the Kyoto Isshu Trail!”

A red fire bucket
At the temple Basho visited—
Last cherry petals float          Mayumi Kawaharada

.

from the Icebox inbox – 52

Haiku poems (and one haibun) selected from Icebox submissions (Jan. – Mar. 2022) by Sosui (Nobuyuki Yuasa):

ancestral house
the old tree and I
share our memories　　       Mira

last sliver of sunlight
gray geese still honking, grazing
on dark earth                        Sydney Solis

arises from the fog
and disappears in it –
the pilgrim                            Momiji

jasmine scent…
morning sun warms
the bellies of storks              K. Ramesh

No Fishing sign
a heron’s eye
catches mine                        John Parsons

Haibun:
Under my high-legged sofa is an old brown suitcase with remnants from my dear deceased parents. It has been sitting there since my sister and I cleared out our childhood home nine years ago. Like a constant reminder, it has been on our “to do” list since: sorting out diaries, letters from relatives and papers from our father’s work as professor. But each time my sister visited, we postponed it as just too much – just now – when the sun was shining or a museum or film lured us to less heartbreaking activities. We know how fast we packed that heavy old thing! Years went by and last May my little sister became ill with cancer and died after just one month. So short a time to say all the unsaid things from a long life! Now I am the sole matriarch and the suitcase has been shouting at me to be opened. To my surprise my father wrote drafts of his correspondence.
The paper crackles
Thin between my fingertips
Letters from beloved                Ulla Bruun

Once a lump of clay—
Three sharp pieces in the sink
still hold memories                   David Sinex

Crooner’s recording
From a promenade bandstand
Vies with wind and waves.         Kamome

in the dance of snowflakes
a Japanese white-eye begs food
from me in the garden               Yoshiharu Kondo

Sosui’s comments:

The criteria used in my selection were (1) to choose one piece from each contributor and (2) to choose the poems that struck my heart in one way or another. My comments are as follows.

Both the author and the tree may be silent, but Mira’s poem is very eloquent nonetheless. Sydney Solis’s poem is a beautiful description of an evening scene. I wondered if it might be possible to move ‘grazing’ to the third line, though. Momiji’s poem not only describes the fog but also the inner mind of the pilgrim very well—full of anxiety but looking for peace. K. Ramesh’s poem is a vivid description of a morning scene. I smelled jasmine and felt the warmth of the sunlight. John Parsons’s poem catches a poignant moment well. I happen to be a fisherman myself, and have always detested ‘No Fishing’ signs and enjoyed meeting herons. Although they are our rivals, they can sit on a stone in the stream like a philosopher. They do have very sharp eyes, though.

Ulla Bruun’s haibun deals with a common theme, but I found it very sincere. I chose only one of the poems after the prose section, but it is a powerful one with which to conclude the piece. I found David Sinex’s poem somewhat mystifying, but thought-provoking at the same time. I wondered if it might not be possible to add a short prose paragraph to make the poem more understandable. Kamome’s poem describes the loud voice of the singer effectively. I wonder, though, which is really louder, the singer’s voice or the wind and waves. Singers nowadays may use electronic devices to make their voices very loud but, even so, winds and waves are more powerful, or at least it should be so. I enjoyed reading Yoshiharu’s poem on white-eyes (mejiro). I am also fond of these tiny green birds. Spring does not come until they are around.

Please allow me also to share a few haiku poems of my own. Feel free either to skip them altogether or to send me your own comments through the reply box.

The sky dawns today
Flushed in the softest of pink —
We know spring is here.　　　　　　　 ほんのりとピンクに染まる春の朝

A pair of crows fly
From a plum blossom village
To their mountain home.　　　　　　　梅が咲く里から山へ鴉二羽

A pair of white-eyes
Sing by turns in a hedgerow
In their sweetest voice.　　　　　　　  生垣に目白鳴き交う声優し

With its sudden cry
A pheasant broke the silence
Of a spring morning.　　　　　　　　  ケンケンと雉鳴き春のしじま断つ

Although I wrote the following poem years ago, I repeat it every year when the cherry blossom season is over.

Cherry blossoms gone—
Now I sit down to enjoy
Blossoms in my heart.                            散り果ててやっと心の花見かな

Kyoto Isshu Trail Haike IX

Fine as rice bran
the hillside rain:
tram station
in the woods
…. (Tito)

6 March, a day of lively weather. Three women, three men start out from Ninose heading upstream along the Kurama River. Two of the women have been ‘awarded’ martenitsa* brooches, sent to Tito a few days earlier by haiku poet-artist Venelina Petkova. On spying her first flowering tree of spring, the recipient must take it off and make a wish. But, on a day in which snow is in the forecast, will the two women get to see any blossom?

below the graveyard —
a fisherman casts
one shining line
…. (David)

After less than a mile, walking towards us come two more men – a father and son. The party of eight, now complete, soon passes another white paper-trimmed ritual wheel* as we enter the village of Kurama.

a flurry of snow
disappears in deep forest —
stippled sunshine
…. (Akihiko)

Sakuramochi* are bought and eaten at the foot of the broad steps leading up to Yuki Shrine, famed for its October Fire Festival. Eighth century priest, Saicho, had had a vision of Yakushi, the Medicine Buddha, near here, so the pass over which we must now trudge goes by the name of Yakkozaka-toge 薬王坂峠, Medicine King Pass.

a tit’s chirp
opens the blue sky —
that spring blue!
…. (Akihiko)

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Descending steeply to the northwest, we come upon the village of Shizuhara.

One after the other
Snow and sunlight —
A white plum blooms
…. (Mayumi K.)

the high village
gusted by March wind —
peach blossom
…. (David)

Martenitsas have now been taken off and wishes made! The sky gods seem to be sparring – Rain, Sleet, Hail, Snow, Sun and Wind. Having first dutifully prayed at the village shrine, we seek shelter from another shower at a pavilion housing, amongst other things, New Year’s rice-straw cast-offs. We eat the lunches we have brought and enjoy the meteorological show. There is even a hint of a sleet-bow.

From blue skies
the Milky Way’s descended …
as a river of snow
…. (Margarite)

Three old cedars
reaching for the sky:
their heaven,
their earth
…. (Margarite)

We cross Shizuhara River on a bridge, the rounded granite outcrops of Mt. Kompira looming up ahead. The valley along which we are now walking soon closes down again, and the Isshu Trail begins a second climb – Ebumi Pass 江文峠.

Cresting the pass …
feeling the windblown snowflakes
smart on my face
…. (Tito)

After a wild descent, the Vale of Ohara now opens out before us. David takes us to Ebumi Shrine, to see the giant cryptomeria*, which wears a long sacred rope around its massive bole.

The moss-covered steps
To an ancient shrine —
Early spring snow
…. (Mayumi K.)

Giving thanks for the safe completion of this leg of our Kyoto mountain circuit, we head off along drystone walls and peer through the village gates of Ohara, our destination, catching glimpses of corners of gardens. Ahead of us rise the ramparts of Mt. Hiei; behind us, away to the north, the distant snowy ghost of Mt. Hira. The Takano River accompanies us with its merriment.

At the bus-stop, all perhaps now feel the glow of having lived with the Elements for a day in early March.

* Notes:
ritual wheel – (featured in the slideshow) indicating a prayer station for the Fire Festival
martenitsa – see here
sakuramochi – rice-cake stuffed with sweet azuki-bean paste and wrapped in a fragrant cherry-leaf
cryptomeria – sugi, a type of giant conifer

Houses of Stone by Matthew Caretti

Yet another pilgrimage. Overland to Malawi. Now paused at the Zimbabwe-South Africa border. Visas and passports and customs checks before crossing the Limpopo River. Close by, the old railway line is now a footbridge for the masses heading south. Seeking safety and work. Perhaps a new life for their children. Somehow I trade places with them. Leave any sense of knowing and security behind.

trestlework
long shadows
crossing over

Stepping down from the bus into Masvingo. Then a taxi to the ruins. A fellow traveler had derided this place—“Just some piles of rocks!” But a local poet has captured it best. “Stones, the visible end of silence.”

alone into
dzimba dza mabwe
morning sun

Down into the valley. Past the eastern enclosures. Looking for a sacred seam in the earth. Somewhere here on the path, requiring a brief ritual. Putting down my load. Uttering a prayer to the ancestors. Then a slow, superstitious step over it.

.
noonday breeze
a witch’s spell
hardens into bedrock

I take in my final sunset at the western enclosure. My solitary perch this past week. Alone again with the baboons and some lingering spirits of the past. Thoughts of the future. Moving beyond the monk that I was. I uncross my legs. Stand. Stride.

moonrise
the ancient wall
mapped in lichen

.
.
Notes: …. dzimba dza mabwe is the Shona origin of “Zimbabwe,” meaning “houses of stone.”
…………. This haibun was first published in the book, Africa, Buddha, Red Moon Press, 2022
…………. The photos, which are not in the above book, are by  Gunji Suda.

Giving Thanks

The first rice stalks are harvested.

a mellow sun
lights up the old garden – 
Thai Pongal

Thai Pongal is the harvest festival celebrated mid-January here in Tamil Nadu*. Spread across four days, it also marks the change in the direction of the Sun towards the north and the advent of Spring. Many of the festive activities express gratitude to the Sun, nature and livestock (especially bulls and cows).

Women make decorations on the ground outside their homes with powdered colours and rice flour.

drawing a rangoli* –
the rainbow hues
of a butterfly 

Pongal is also the name of the traditional food eaten at this time, cooked with milk, rice and jaggery*.

flash of a blade
slicing the banana leaf 
to adorn the mud pot

pongal boils over – 
the sunshine smile
on the little girl’s face

grandma’s prophecy –
this year’s harvest
will overflow the granary

tinkling bells
the farm’s only bull
nods assent

 

Notes: *Tamil Nadu – a state in peninsular South India; *rangoli – also known as kolam in South India, is an art form in which patterns decorate the ground or floor; *jaggery – unrefined dark brown sugar made from the sap of sugarcane or palm.

Kyoto Isshu Trail Haike VIII

Heavy snow had fallen all over Kyoto in the days before six intrepid haiku hikers gathered at Ninose, a tiny village next to Kurama. We found the northern hills still draped in sheets of white.

The local railway
gently winding to snow —
silent mountains
………. (Akihiko)

Our aim was to reach Himuro, an ancient centre of ice production for the imperial court. We had certainly chosen the right time of year. Paying brief respects to a kamakura (Japanese igloo) we began the long, steady climb of Mount Mukai. Throughout our hike we were treading on snow, grateful to follow the footsteps of the few hardy souls who had broken the trail on previous days.

The buck bolts
up the snowy riverbank
before my shutter clicks
………. (Richard)

Higher up, we reached Yonaki Toge (夜泣き峠) or Night-Wailing Pass. Here, the infant Prince Koretaka was pacified when his nurse prayed for relief to local gods, who advised her to place a piece of pine bark under his pillow.

Frozen under the snow
on a Kyoto hill —
ancient tears
………. (Margarite)

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Crossing the peak of Mount Mukai, we stopped for a chilly lunch at one of the few spots on the northern trail that offers a view across the city. Too cold to linger, we descended to the headwaters of the Kamo River. Gazing south along the river valley, it was hard to imagine the large city that lay hidden beyond the ridge. Climbing again, we entered Nusuttodani（盗人谷）or Thieves’ Canyon. This is one of the wildest spots on the Round Kyoto Trail, a dark and claustrophobic place where we were forced to stoop under innumerable fallen trees and hop over streams. But the deep snow added light to the valley, and lightened our mood.

Middle-aged folk
hurl snowballs back and forth,
sniggling
………. (Kazue)

Splattered over snow,
a blue mystery —
winterberries
………. (David)

All the way up
the Gorge of Thieves
tall trees
throw down ice
………. (Tito)

At the head of the valley we emerged into a blindingly white world. The tiny hamlet of Himuro, hidden away among the northern mountains, felt completely deserted, save for one barking dog and a rising line of smoke.

Blanketed in snow,
wreathed in wood smoke —
the icemakers’ village
………. (Tito)

We clambered through deep snowdrifts to the spot where, from ancient times, villagers stored ice in shallow pits. In June they uncovered the precious commodity and carried it over mountains, bringing a touch of summer cool to fortunate aristocrats in the capital.

Finally, we paid a visit to the snow-bound Himuro Shrine, dedicated to the God of Ice.

Flat and square
under the shrine roof,
a snow blanket
………. (Akihiko)

One adventure remained, as we were obliged to return by car over the high, and deeply frozen pass at Kyomi Toge (京見峠). Slithering and slipping on the treacherous road, we descended to a downpour of snow-melting rain.

Chhoki & Rajan Unlimited

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is unusual for Icebox to advertise a book by poets with no obvious connection to the Hailstone Haiku Circle, but Unexpected Gift  is an e-book of collaborative haikai ‘poems’, authored by Genjuan (& Kikakuza) Haibun Contest multiple awardees, Sonam Chhoki (Bhutan) and Geethanjali Rajan (India), and they have both expressed to me gratitude at how the Contest helped to bring them together and for my personal encouragement of their writing over the years. It’s a joy to be able to do so and for sure, there is some very delicate dancing between the authors here. This is very sophisticated, if that’s permissible in such a simple world as haiku. Published by Éditions des Petits Nuages in Canada, the book contains 25 responsive ‘poems’ chosen from 7 years of writing together – featuring haiku, senryu, tanka, haibun and tanbun – with a foreword by Mike Montreuil. The beautiful cover art and interior illustrations are by Dhaatri Vengunad Menon. What I found especially interesting was the way that, irrespective of whether the component parts were haiku or senryu or tanka or prose, they were treated as if the resultant composite piece was one longer poem.  Available on Kindle: ASIN: B09KV9SMNW. Highly recommended!

A rengay from the book (click on the page to read; Chhoki in italics):

from the Icebox inbox – 51

Happy 2022, dear readers!

It’s about time to gather some of the more resonant offerings posted as comments at our current Submissions page. Thank you for sending them in.

summer noon —
the sound of cowbells
outside my home

.. Mira, India

purple loosestrife
stillness of a heron
in autumn sun

.. John Parsons, UK

a grey heron
walks magnificently …
flies off
with a metallic sound

.. Yoshiharu Kondo, Japan

twilight in Salamanca —
a cacophony of birds
all the way home

.

between mossed trees
white turn arrow on asphalt
points to the moon

.. Sydney Solis, Spain

Colorful silk thread
Thrown across the vast sky —
Dusk’s weaving wheel

.. Sowmya Hiremat, India

Creatures of Winter

Nobuyuki Yuasa (Sosui) has asked me to share these new winter haiku of his. There will be a new ‘from the Icebox inbox’ posting soon. Happy holidays to all of our readers!

All that must depart,
I leave them to the cold wind
And shut myself up.

去るものは風に任せて冬籠 saru mono wa kaze ni makasete fuyugomori

A pot of young pines,
How deep the green of their needles
In this winter scene.

一鉢の松の若木や緑濃し hitohachi no matsu no wakagi ya midori koushi

A winter crow perched
On an electric wire, sharpens
Its beak against it.

電線に嘴研ぐや冬烏 densen ni kuchibashi togu ya fuyugarasu

A young cat asleep
In a sunny spot, moving
Its ears now and then.

若猫は日向で寝ても耳動く wakaneko wa hinata ni netemo mimi ugoku

A December storm —
Two rainbow pillars stand up
In the Western sky.

冬の虹二本立ちたる西の空 fuyu no niji nihon tachitaru nishi no sora

Asuka-in-Kyoto Ginko

21 Nov. ’21. Katabiranotsuji Tram Station. In autumn sunshine, off we went in search of the largest remaining Hata tomb, Hebizuka Kofun, a rival of Ishibutai in Asuka. A short stroll along Daiei St. brought us to a colossal statue of an ancient warrior. Someone had recently climbed up to the face and fixed a large white corona mask, on which had been written, in two emphatic characters: “Crush the Plague.”

Thanks to Kazue, we eventually found the elusive tomb. Only its enormous central stone chamber remains, dwarfing the semi-detached houses cropping up like a mushroom circle all around. Here and there, yukimushi (snow midges) drifted in the morning rays.

Toward sunlight               …… A snow midge                      ……….. Ancient tomb
a tree grows                   ……. slips through the wire—      ……….. cicada shell
out of tomb rock            …….. warm day at Hebizuka                    . stuck to rock
.. (Branko)                        ……. (Richard)                              ……….. (Kumiko)

Arriving at Kyoto’s oldest temple, Kōryūji (formerly, Hachiokadera), we found the peace and autumn colour we had been hoping for. The only crowd was us (15 contemplative poets). This was one of the seven great temples founded in the late sixth and early seventh centuries by Shotoku Taishi, Asuka statesman and promoter of Buddhism. His righthand man in Kyoto Valley (largely then in the province of Kaduno) was Kawakatsu Hata, whose immigrant clan held most of the land, founded its grand shrines, and had been responsible for the introduction of sericulture. At one time during the Asuka Period, Kawakatsu Hata had even held the purse strings of the nation.

Stout wooden scaffolding          In Kōryūji’s precincts
for a temple building:                .two pigeons’ tree feast—
autumn renovation                   .shiny black berries
.. (Kyoko)                                   ..(Richard)

– click on any circle to enlarge and thence use arrows to see all the pics –

Inside the Treasure Hall, once our eyes had adjusted to its twilight conditions, we found devotional wooden statues of both the Prince and the Minister. We also noted a great number of weapon-bearing, armour-clad guardians of the directions, as well as Lakshmi (Kishōten) and other Indian divinities.

Protected by                                      ..Miroku Bosatsu
heavenly guards with weapons,          arises from the darkness—
the ancient Bodhisattva!                    ..mantra overhead
.. (Shigeko K)                                        .(Yaeno)

The real treasure here is the Korean-style sculpture of Miroku Bosatsu (Maitreya Boddhisatva) carved from red pine and seated in the hanka posture (with one leg propped restfully on the other). Its blissful head appears to be supported in a ‘thinker’ style by the fingers of the right hand. It is thought to be the very image presented by Shotoku to Kawakatsu at the foundation of the temple back in 603. Before it, in ones and twos, the poets all prayed for an end to the pandemic … and no doubt much besides.

Down the years
hoping to meet the Maitreya:
here,
like a pink-tinged apple
.. (Teruko)

Outside, the autumn blazed.

Holy place—                             Staying with me
wherever I go                           .by a dark pool under maples:
persimmon leaves fall              .that archaic smile
.. (Tomiko)                                 ..(Tito)

Rumour had it that at the local tram-stop, Uzumasa-Kōryūji, there was a curious machine. A few poets then went off to see.

Vending machine
by the temple gate:
not tobacco
but gods for sale!
.. (Kazue)

We took lunch in a lively neighbourhood restaurant, Arara. The upbeat chef was friendly and persuaded many of us to order his burger-and-prawn dish of the day by parading the ingredients around on a metal tray.

After coffee and a short haiku sharing, those with more time were offered an additional stroll to see two ancient Hata shrines nearby. We walked part of the way on Taishi-michi (Prince’s Way, named after Shotoku). The tiny Osake Jinja enshrines the spirits of the legendary ancestors of the Hata clan, including Yunzu no Kimi, Sake no Kimi, and even the first Chinese Emperor, Qin Shi Huang, famed for the Terracotta Army buried along with him near Xi’an. This day had steadily revealed to us an incredible ancient pantheon of gods and worthies.

There is a poem by Shiki:

山茶花や鳥居小き胞衣の神
sazanka ya / torii chiisaki / ena no kami
Sasanqua flowers—
through the tiny torii, a shrine
to the Placenta God

Tito related that ena no kami derived from a legend about Kawakatsu, in which he first appears as an embryo in a terracotta pot someone finds by the gateway of Miwa Shrine in Yamato. Eighty years or so later, after his exile and subsequent death, Kawakatsu himself had become a wrathful deity who needed to be propitiated. This tiny Kyoto shrine did not seem to be the one about which Shiki had versified, however, for we noted that Kawakatsu was not enshrined here. More likely, Shiki had written his haiku at (or about) the eponymous Osake Jinja in Ako, Hyogo, from where one can spy Kawakatsu’s resting place, the tiny wooded isle of Ikishima.

Pondering over
the glory of the Hata Clan—
winter sunlight
.. (Yaeno)

Several hundred metres further down the road, in the ancient grove of Kaiko no Yashiro (the Silkworm Shrine), we noticed a pile of rocks in a small dried-up pond. Above this omphalos, fencing it in, is a triangular construction made of three conjoined torii (sacred Shinto archways) aligned, we were told, with the three grand shrines of ancient Kyoto (Matsuo, Kamigamo and Inari). This shrine’s full name is Konoshima-nimasu-amaterumitama Jinja, an old Yamato name if ever there was one!

Sasanqua flowers—
now, just three directions
in a numinous wood
.. (Tito)

Autumn’s here

As autumn progresses, allow me to offer a few observations from my part of the world (over 9,000 kms. away, in Macedonia), yet not so very different, one imagines, regarding Mother Nature’s universal brilliant show of colour and latent scent of gradual decay.

warm winds of autumn
busy sweeping leaves
into tidy corners

….. tree roots
….. along the woodland path
….. an old man doffs his cap

………………………… edge of the lake
………………………… poplars on tiptoe
………………………… admiring their reflections

autumnal breath
golden aspens
shivering

breezy stroll
prattling on
a brittle leaf keeps pace

approaching storm
lake swans busking
next to shriveled reeds

A Matter of Ownership

It was a muggy day when I first noticed something unusual at my house. I glimpsed it in a nook of the porch, but lazily dismissed it thinking it was nothing serious. There were some spotted stains on the tiles, too.

Several weeks later, I was startled to see that the spots had spread. I lifted my eyes along the drainpipe towards a dark corner.

Something in a row
something in a huddle:
strangely silent
nest of bees

Carefully opening the door, I slipped into the house, regretting my laziness. I googled how to get rid of bees. Then, I conferred with my wife and concluded the best way would be to call in an exterminator.

The next day, I searched to find a suitable professional, but before I called, remembered that the bees had never actually attacked us nor done any harm. It was in part sympathy for the bees and in part my laziness again that made me change my mind. So we opted to leave the nest as it was and see how things went.

A weary bee
basking on the porch －
an autumn field

It’s been one month now, but, so far, living together with the bees, sharing the space on both sides of the wall, is going well. Although their numbers have seemed to dwindle as the days get colder, I am happy with our decision.

We live in a new residential area, which once used to be grasses, bushes, and bamboo groves. Now it’s all houses, apartments, hospitals, malls, and roadways. It makes me sad to realize that we’ve been changing the rules and destroying the environment for our own benefit. Humans move and buy ownership of a house. Bees move and make their houses where they please. Mankind is just 1 of 1.75 million species cohabiting the Earth. Sometimes, I have to remind myself of this.

Square silhouettes
before an autumn sunset －
concrete field