For a few minutes, the sun emerged, and its light reflected from the wet leaves of the wild plum was so bright that I sneezed. The damp walkway is littered with fallen camellia blossoms which lie on a green bed of winter lichen, and the moss that covers trunk and branches of the mulberry tree is plush, dense, and wintry green. Now the azaleas have chosen to bloom, and the flowers of the three gladiolus plants have already withered. A flock of swans flew north as the moment of sunshine faded, and vanished into the gray mists that quickly closed the distant forest ridges to view. Now, the twigs of the mulberry tree catch my attention as they quiver from the weight of two small brown birds who have alighted on slender branches. I notice that the twigs have sprouted buds. Cold air pours through my open window, carrying the sound of an acorn woodpecker. I imagine his chuckle to be at my expense, as I gaze out with astonishment at this muddling of seasons.