A Flock of Wild Geese
I saw a flock of wild geese crossing the sky. I kept my head raised a long time, and my neck didn't ache.
Alight
Level 5Look up, and there is a bird. I never see where it goes.
고개를 들면 보이는 새 한 마리와 그 뒤의 하늘
Mostly Short prose, with other forms mixed in, often about comfort·everyday life.
Knowing When to Close an Open Mouth
From the mud nest hanging at the edge of the eaves, the chicks poke out their heads and open their mouths. Yellow beaks gape wide toward the sky. Standing beneath them, I found myself looking up for a long time. At some point I had stopped waiting for anything, and grown used to simply rising when morning came and lying down when the sun set. But seeing those small lives throw their whole bodies open, calling for something, I wonder if I was once like that too. Closing a mouth that had forgotten what it called for, I went back inside the house. But when do those chicks learn to close those gaping mouths, I wonder. Last evening, watching the laundry outside the window fluttering in the wind, I found myself thinking about that. By the time the chicks close their mouths, they must be learning to swallow the insects their mother brings. And even so, all evening long, watching the rippling laundry, I practiced swallowing something on my own. At dawn the laundry began to dry. There was a moment when the wet cloth lay down meekly in the wind, once, and after that nothing stirred. Beneath the eaves the chicks were still asleep, and the morning air was seeping in between their open beaks.
In the Reed Bed
A reed warbler sings among the reeds. The sound is clear, but however wide I open my eyes, I can't see the bird. The wind brushes through the reeds and passes. I stood there and waited until the sound was gone. Even after, the reeds kept rustling. I turned and walked along the lakeshore. Behind me the warbler was still singing. The sun was high. My shadow stayed short at my feet, then touched the water's edge and trembled. It was a day on which nothing happened. I stopped walking and listened again. The sound of reeds and the sound of water, and somewhere between them, the warbler's song went on. With that sound in my ears, I walked on slowly.
The sparrow's call was short. I started to take up again the words I'd heard earlier, and stopped. Where the sound ended, nothing remained. The sparrow soon flew away. I picked up the glass and took a sip of water. The water was lukewarm. The wire the sparrow had left swayed gently.
A magpie tilted its head on the railing. I stopped, laundry in my arms. The warm sunlight carries the smell rising like steam from the wet quilt. That smell brushed past my shoulder. Where the magpie flew off only the empty railing remained, and the laundry swelled once more in the wind.
I didn't know my toes were wet. Until the heron caught its fish, I stood at the water's edge holding my breath. When at last I raised my head, the fog had lifted and I could see the far bank of the river. Only then did I take a step. No one was waiting for me, but I thought it would be all right to walk a little more slowly.