The rain stops mid-afternoon, and suddenly there it is — a faint arc of color suspended between two hills, so delicate it seems painted on mist. The air carries that particular sweetness of wet earth and fresh leaves, while droplets still cling to every surface, each one holding its own small spectrum. This is the season when sky and water conspire to remind us that light itself can be broken open.

Nature Notes

Swallows have fully returned now, their forked tails cutting swift arcs beneath clouds heavy with the next shower. Cherry blossoms have given way to the unfurling of fresh leaves — a green so bright it seems to glow from within. Frogs have begun their evening chorus in the paddies, and the first firefly larvae stir in streamside grasses, though their flight is still weeks away.

In Season

At the Table

Cultural Note