Last week, I was walking home from the subway station. It was night, after dinner, about 9:00. As I walked past the Buddhist temple, three men were working by the light of a lantern in the small shrine outside the main temple, repainting the tiny portable shrine house inside with equally tiny brushes. I looked up at the large hill across the bridge, where my giant cell tower lives, and saw that the misty clouds stood so low, they were touching the tops of the hills. The tower had completely disappeared, its mellow floodlights unable to pierce the mist to light even the base. There were no cars on either my small bridge or the larger one also spanning the river just a block’s distance away as I paused to listen to the water running in the Hirose-gawa, the leaves rustling on the vines growing on the steep banks, and the insects chirping in the dark. The street lights reflected in the water, making the ripples sparkle. All this was mine.