I wandered into Nagoro, the most remote village in Japan.
Silence hung heavy in the air, a haunting stillness.
Scarecrows outnumbered humans, 300 to 30.
Lifeless figures posed in eternal moments.
Each straw soul a memory of someone long gone.
In this village, only ghosts and dolls remain.

​I walked up the stone steps.
Chikurinji Temple stood before me.
Kōchi, on the island of Shikoku.
Number 31 of 88 temples on the pilgrimage.
Founded by Gyōki, a Buddhist priest, in the 8th century.
I passed through the temple gate.
Paid respects to Monju Bosatsu, bodhisattva of wisdom.
The main hall held a hidden treasure.
A statue of Monju, riding a lion.
Flanked by attendants, one male, one female.
I felt a deep sense of history.
And serenity in this sacred place.

​I stand on the rocky shore.
Waves crash against the cliffs.
The sea stretches endlessly.
Gulls wheel overhead, crying.
Fishing boats bob in the distance.
A lighthouse perches, steadfast.
The salty breeze fills my lungs.
I am small in this vast beauty.
Nature's power humbles me.
I find peace in the solitude.

​I drove to the Jogu Submersible Bridge.
It was early morning.
The sun hung low, casting long shadows
I parked and walked out onto the bridge
Water lapped gently at the concrete
Twice a day, the bridge sinks beneath the surface
Allowing boats to pass
A marvel of engineering
Connecting two pieces of land
Giving way to the ebb and flow
I stood there for a while
Thinking about the balance of things
How we build and adapt
Find ways to cross divides
The bridge seemed to understand this
I watched it disappear, water rising
Merging the sea and sky into blue.

​I watched the cat
lap water from a rock basin.
Outside the window,
life in Taishomachi went on.
People walked by,
trains rumbled in the distance.
The cat kept drinking,
oblivious to it all,
focused only
on quenching its thirst
in this small town
of Kure, Japan.

​I went to Naoshima.
A small island in Japan's Seto Inland Sea.
There, on a hill overlooking the water,
Sat an enormous yellow pumpkin.
Round and gleaming in the sun.
A sculpture by Yayoi Kusama.
It made me pause and wonder.
At the peculiar beauty in ordinary things.
When seen through an artist's eyes.

​The plum blossoms beckon.
I walk the path at Korakuen.
In Okayama, where lords once strolled.
Gnarled branches, blushing petals.
A living painting from centuries past.
Ephemeral beauty, soon scattered.
But today, perfection.