As the title says, I'm taking leave.
Morning Mist in the Mountains
The mist had come at just the right time.
I had stayed in this mountain cottage the night before to escape the noise of the city. But when I opened the door that morning, I stepped into a vast expanse of white. The mist was so thick it seemed all the moisture between heaven and earth had gathered here, crowding together to swallow the entire mountain.
I threw on a light shirt and walked down the path outside the door. Dew had dampened the stones underfoot, and each step made a faint sound that rang remarkably clear in the mist. The trees on either side had vanished, leaving only vague outlines, like pale ink washes on rice paper. Now and then, pine needles hung low with bright beads of dew. At a touch, the drops pattered down, sending a chill into my fingertips.
The farther I went, the thicker the mist grew. It did not stand still. It drifted and curled around the mountain like an affectionate woman holding it close. At times it parted to reveal a distant ridge, blue-green and faint as a brushstroke in an ink painting. Then it gathered again and hid everything before me behind a white veil. I made my way through it, picking my steps along the uneven path.
At the end of the path stood a bamboo grove. The bamboo looked taller and more slender in the mist, each joint distinct, like figures from long ago standing there with their robes fluttering. When the wind passed through, the leaves rustled with a damp sound, as though weighed down by the mist. A few early birds called out. Their notes carried through the white air, exceptionally clear, though the birds themselves