A thin band of fog lay flat across the river, and the kites traced circles overhead in slow, wide loops against the pale sky.
Down on the levee road, a kei truck started up with a cough. A woman in rubber boots worked the cucumber vines, shaking off the night’s dew. Through breaks in the fog, the river showed pewter, then silver. Heron tracks marked the wet sand; somewhere a carp surfaced, leaving rings.
From across the valley came a train’s horn—one long note, then the clatter of wheels that faded into the fog. I walked the gravel bar, noticing small things: willow fluff drifting, a clouded plastic bottle catching the light, a fallen reed bent like a question mark.
By eight, the fog began lifting in layers, showing the rice paddies and morning glories like bright flags climbing a fence. The kites stopped circling and hung motionless, dark shapes against the clearing sky. Smoke from someone’s brush pile—apple wood, sweet and thin—drifted across the current.
The whole morning felt like watching something develop. First the fog obscured everything, then the sun burned it off piece by piece. By the time the market opened, it was just another clear day by the river, but I kept thinking about those quiet moments when the world seemed wrapped in gauze, when ordinary things looked briefly magical.