As we walked along the path collecting buds, turtledoves were cooing. As we were going down to the swamp to pick the butterbur, cuckoos were calling.
By the river, where she said yes for the first time, wild roses were scenting the air.
In the pine grove where I listened to her voice, siskins were warbling.
Alas, now, when those things are all vanishing, this evening, in the bustle of Tokyo, I suddenly realize what she must have been thinking of that day on our way back from the woods, as she walked along picking dandelions and tossing them up in the air.