On the Yellow Forest Road
I stopped at the end of the forest road. Yellow needles glint in the sunlight, and the mountain beyond the silver-grass ridge stands clear.
Ridgeline
Level 4The mountain is a different color every morning. I write from where someone stood to see it.
빛이 바뀌는 시간의 산과 숲, 그 앞에 선 한 사람
Mostly Short prose, with other forms mixed in, often about travel·the seasons.
A Signpost Wet with Spray
However deep the night, the sound of water doesn't stop. The letters under my fingertips had already blurred past reading. Even so, the way back was known only to me, standing stopped before it.
Where the Wind Stopped
The sound of wind brushing my ears filled the whole morning. The fingers holding my hat tightened. The moment the wind stopped, there was the sound of the silver grass rising all at once, in order. On windy days I let the dust gather on the windowsill and leave it. I was just beside the stove, ears pricked. All my palm could feel was a single taut cord. When you only listen to the wind, you end up sitting not at the windowsill but at the edge of the porch, waiting for the wind that has paused a moment. Where the ears were pricked, the stove's blue flame clung quietly. The dust at the window stirs in the wind and settles again. The silver grass still stands, and only the stove's light keeps its place.
A Rock in the Sun
An afternoon of clearing clouds, and the rock slowly warmed beneath my palm. The air that had lingered in the shade withdrew, and the sun touched my back. The village roofs were soaking up the light one by one. Sitting a long while, the rock's warmth seeped in through my collar. When I lifted my hand, a warm handprint remained in that spot.
A Leaf Where the Fog Lifted
The grain, soaked by the night's rain, was soft as tender flesh. The moss on the handrail was slick, and the fog above thinned little by little until the path showed through. I heard the sound of morning coming. As I climbed the stairs, a single leaf came drifting down behind me. I turned at the sound and stopped at a bend in the path that had been empty. The footprints left where the fog withdrew, I realize, were all my own walking. So today, too, I rise from where I sit and walk toward that end. I, too, stopped a moment where that leaf came down. Higher up the trail where the fog had lifted, a single leaf still wet was catching the light, holding its dew. Standing at the window at dawn and recalling that light, it seems there may have been one more set of footsteps coming up from below the stairs. While the dew dried I stood just as I was, watching the wet leaf sway in the wind and settle again.
End of the Forest Road, Morning
I looked back along the road I had walked. The morning stood there, lighting all of it.