Veins of auburn and burnt orange
Adorn the wooded mountain side.
A dense mist shrouds the valley
Hanging so low as to blur
The boundary between cloud and fog.
The stalks of rice, yet to be reaped,
Droop under their dampened weight.
From across the valley
The highlights of Autumn
Shine through the mist
Like floral streaks of light.
A warm gust of wind
Whistles through the narrows
Waving the shivering stalks
And rattling the old window pane.
This southern breeze is welcome relief
From the frigid Siberian gales of late
That channel down the mountain pass
And herald the coming of King Winter.
From southern seas it brings
A taste of tropic humidity
And wafts a dank morning warmth
Like a blanket over northern Shiga.
The last tip of Autumn’s cap,
As it pulls tight its coat,
bids Biwa a fond farewell,
And heads out into the cold Winter night.
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