The Rooftops of Shimoichi

We emerge
into a canvas
of failing light.

The clay tiles
meld black, red and blue,
with grey-green.

With a single brushstroke of motion
the rooftops of Shimoichi
dissolve into a river of color.

Nearer the track,
drafting on thick humid air,
a wayward shorebird
circles a shallow canal
scanning its edges for crabs.

To the south,
the Chugoku mountains,
turned blue by a cloak of clouds,
rise one above the other.

And, before it abandons us completely,
the escaping sun
rims the highest ridge in fire.

Speeding headlong
into the gathering darkness
feels like moving backward
from Cezanne into Turner.