Waking the Buds

A gentle, quiet, drizzling spring rain.

I try to listen to the rain enveloping the entire town. Along the road where traffic has ceased, at the edge of an empty forest, by the side of a wetland where Asian skunk cabbages bloom in clusters—I felt as if I heard the faint sound of leaves rustling.

The spring rain that wakes the buds—'Kono-me okoshi'.

When I learned that early spring rain is sometimes called that, an unnamed emotion ignited deep within my chest.

A sound reaching from a distant forest during a season when one walks while getting their feet stuck in the mud of melting snow. It is not the sound of spring's footsteps, but perhaps something much closer—the sound of plants stirring deep beneath the earth.

Spring in Hokkaido arrives a step or two later than in other lands. Even if it is already spring on the calendar, the fields and paddies remain colorless. Yet, it is precisely because of this late spring that the moment of sprouting feels so distinct.

From the rain-soaked ground, Asian skunk cabbages were peeking out.

The plump white spathes melt into the air that still holds a chill, as if the land itself has let out a sigh. There is no scent of flowers in the spring wetlands yet. There is only the rain, and the presence of flowers swaying faintly as they are struck by it.

Someone once said that 'spring rain' (haru no ame) and 'spring drizzle' (harusame) are different. If spring rain is a 'seasonal rain,' then spring drizzle might be a 'rain of presence'.

Indeed, a heavy rain that keeps car wipers busy is not welcomed, even in spring. On the other hand, this gentle, drizzling rain, which makes one hesitate to even open an umbrella, has a certain sense of relief.

It makes no sound as it soaks into the ground, reaching quietly to the core of the plants and trees. The rainwater that wets the tips of the roots encourages sprouting. Things that were sleeping wake up little by little, emerging above ground in the form of as-yet-unnamed leaves.

The waking of the buds is not the sound of the wind, but the sound of the earth.

It cannot be heard by human ears. But if you place yourself in the silence, I feel as though you can sense it. The tips of the branches become plump and rounded, and a secret light of life begins to dwell in the colorless landscape.

Even if I call it a sound, it is not something you can actually hear. It is just that this rain has a presence that can only be described that way. I believe that encountering such a presence is the true pleasure of spring in the north.

I crouch in the rain, listening intently to the slightest tremor that sounds almost like a rustle. As I stare fixedly at the ground right next to the Asian skunk cabbage, still buried under withered grass, I realize that this rain is not just weather, but is performing an invisible task.

The sound of budding must surely be hidden within rain like this.

▼Local Topics | Imakane Town, Setana Town