Morning Mist over the Paddies

In September before harvest, Higashikawa's mornings are wrapped in the deepest mist.

On September mornings, the paddies lie under mist. The difference between the warm rice ears and the cold night air turns water vapor into a white layer. The deeper the morning mist, the clearer the day — townspeople know that before the forecast does.

After six, the mist sinks to knee height, and only the tips of the rice ears appear, like the surface of the sea. By seven Asahidake is visible, and by eight it's clear as if nothing had happened. This two-hour landscape has no name. If anything, just "a September morning."

Once the harvest is over, the mist suddenly becomes shallow. A farmer later taught me that the depth of the mist is the amount of rice standing in the paddies. In other words, this mist is the very sign of the harvest. I've already started next month's story.