Rain waited for nightfall, quickly dampened everything, then turned to mist. It drifts, silent itself, revealed to the ear only by the intermittent drops falling from the trees, though now and them more rain falls, though its sound never rises above a soft whisper, as of rustling grass. I walk in this damp darkness and listen, but it reveals no secrets thought can grasp. Some verse is there which cannot be translated to ordinary language. It passes quickly, and only mist remains, gradually soaking my hair until I feel the drops running down my face and the back of my neck like beads of sweat. What change has this exertion wrought? Something broken down, perhaps, like soil slowly eroding to form some new landscape yet undiscerned. I return home to sleep, and let the water do its work.