Along the Kamogawa River, the autumn afternoon light was clear and gentle at first, but gradually the sky began to turn.
Looking back, the far end of the river was growing darker.
In front, birds filled the light—water birds drifting, herons standing slender and still on raised stones in the middle of the river.
Above, flocks of birds wheeled and chased one another in the sky. Even higher above, a black kite circled slowly.
On the opposite bank, old inns and restaurants stood quietly in a row, before the evening lights came on.
Clear water flowed gently over the stony riverbed. In the autumn light, the grasses along the bank turned gold, almost white.
Then the sky grew unstable, and suddenly a heavy rain came down in sheets. The sky became a strange, almost deranged shade of lead.
I took shelter under a tree and remained there for a while, inside that shifting scene. It grew darker. The rain intensified. The sky felt almost furious.
In Kyoto, mountains are visible from everywhere. Soft, gentle ridgelines. Beyond the river. At the end of wide streets.
After the rain eased, I walked for about two stations. After the storm, the sky was pale orange. In the lingering light, a faint rainbow.
I climbed up onto an overpass and looked into the distance. I stood there, watching the flow of cars. A wide road. High above. Cars streamed below at high speed, making me feel slightly unsteady. The far side of the road was dark and heavy. This side, strangely bright.
Against the dimming sky, the temples became deep silhouettes. I kept on walking until they lost their contours into the night.
