Takuhatsu (begging for change) today from 6:30 am to 3:00 pm. A long one, the last of the season. I`m burnt. (No water, just tea.) But I want to tell of the way the frosty morning air by afternoon had become soft and still, and how for a moment on a single-lane road raised up between barren rice fields it carried the signature scent of summer, full of promise and the promise of secret promises, and of the unspeakable vibrant beauty of the maples, now practically leaping out of their landscape as if the only living things left on earth, singing and humming (thrumming), pulsing with color
in the most subtle gradations, crashing like breakers on a ravished shore, from green underbelly up through a warm pumpkin orange until sliding further up the scale--is it music now? It`s music--to the quiet avalanche of what we call fire-engine red though what we mean is "Oh-my-God-this-tree-is-living-transluscent-fire" red, and how the thing just sits there in unspeakably relaxed stillness-in-movement, breathing through its fingertips.
In the no-breeze,
Leaves float down.