3 a.m. The newspaper delivery scooter buzzes from house to house, mailbox to mailbox.
Sometime before dawn, an owl hoots.
6:30 a.m. The bell of the nearby temple is rung three times, resonating across the fields and down the centuries.
The sun’s up, and the neighbor’s cat seems out of sorts. It sits on the edge of this garden, strangely placid, bawling toward the orchard. Another cat answers in the distance.
In the kitchen and out behind the house, dull thumps, sporadic, felt as much as heard. I think it’s Self-Defense Force artillery practice on the foothills of Mount Fuji, but everyone laughs and says that’s impossible: too far away.
Loudspeaker chimes fill the valley. A message from the police via city hall, a few words at a time to thwart the echo, then repeated, that someone got a phone call from a con artist asking that money be transferred to a “relative’s” account, so be vigilant, and report any similar. Descending chimes conclude the announcement.
Outside the window, a flutter, crashing rustle, and the wet thump of a camellia flower hitting the concrete path, scissored by a hungry brown-eared bubul.
(to be continued)
--Julian
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