Water-Light Along the Wheel Tracks

Water marks spread on the paddy ridge. One evening when the reed stalks lay down as if the wind would snap them, I sat on a paddy ridge and watched the sky in the water a long while. That day's dew fell only on the tops of my feet. So you were sitting on the paddy bank. I was watching water spread across the soil beside you. The sun sank a little lower before the drop on your foot could dry. It must have been an evening when the sun sank faster than the dew could dry. The water mark spread across that soil only began to dry as dusk came on. The wind blew once in between, and it was my sleeve, not the reeds, that stirred first. The wet on my foot, not yet dried, is trying to seep away somewhere. In that moment your sleeve stirred first, the water mark was spreading not only into the soil but into the air as well. While the wet on your foot tried to seep away, the water beneath the reeds had already reached the ridge where I sat. Then I remembered a puddle I saw last autumn beside a bicycle wheel. Unlike the water on the paddy ridge, I was waiting for the moment the bus stop lamp reflected in that puddle would come on. At last the dark came down and I saw the lamp light up there. The bus timetable reflected in the lamplit puddle was still moving, even in the dark. Whether that water-light finally flowed off along the wheel tracks, I didn't see what came after. While the wind died and the reeds rose again, the sky over the paddies darkened little by little. The water mark is still spread across the soil, and in the dusk I wondered for a moment where that water-light had gone.