Mid-October, warm and clear after days of rain. I drive to Arai on my weekly shop, soon crossing the high bridge over the Seki River that marks the border between Nagano and Niigata. Except for a band of cloud beneath the summit, Mount Myoko stands crystal clear in shades of green: dark with cedar, touched with the first rust of beech and oak.
Then there’s the yellow-green that signals the sudden appearance of goldenrod, now everywhere. In Japanese it’s called セイタカアワダチソウ seitaka-awadachisō (Solidago canadensis), meaning “tall foamy plant.” Originally from North America, it was introduced to Japan more than a century ago and has since taken root as one of autumn’s most insistent colors.
Another sure sign that October has arrived is a different yellow flag: the almost gaudy persimmons that appear in every village and farmyard. Until this week they were green, hiding among the leaves, but now they burn through the branches — lanterns of fruit ready to attract the crows and monkeys with their sudden brightness.
As I crest the hill halfway along my journey on Highway 18, a strip of blue opens on the horizon: the Sea of Japan. It’s rare to see it so clearly; most days the horizon fades into the sky in a soft, uncertain haze. But today the air is dry, the light sharp, and for a moment it feels as if I can see all the way to Korea. I’m reminded of summer holidays at the coast as a child: that first glimpse of the sea’s unwavering line. There is very little in nature that is perfectly flat, and perhaps that’s why the sight of it stays with me.
Descending out of the mountains, the air grows warmer. And then I see them — thousands, swarms of red dragonflies. In Japanese, simply akatonbo — red dragonfly (Sympetrum frequens). They spend the summer in the cool mountain air and now return to the lowland paddies to breed, lay eggs, and die. Their soft reds of summer have deepened into bright vermilion, especially in the males, whose bodies gleam in the sunlight as they hover and dart over the fields.
For generations, the red dragonfly has marked this season in Japan’s collective memory. Everyone knows the children’s song Akatonbo, written a century ago by Yamada Kōsaku and Miki Rofū — a melody simple and nostalgic, yet deeply tied to the landscape. Its words recall a child watching dragonflies at sunset, thinking of home and of someone long gone. Even now, when the evenings cool and a few dragonflies shimmer red in the fading light, the song drifts to mind — a quiet reminder that autumn is a season of both change and return.