At the Hoshitoge Rice Terraces A bite of rice in the morning light

I had an onigiri near my mouth as I looked out over the paddy. It was mid-May, after the snow had melted at Hoshitoge. I’d planned to eat breakfast beside the car, but the sky reflected in the water caught my eye, and I paused before my first bite.

I layered a light cream coat over my mint top and stood in the gravel car park. Ahead was a flooded paddy, with trees and mountains beyond it. I couldn’t see all the terraces, but just taking in that one paddy slowed the whole morning down.

The sky and the trees were reflected in the flooded paddy. I’d heard that between the spring thaw and rice planting, the paddies fill with water and become mirrors. It looked different from a field full of rice: I was looking down at water on the ground, yet somehow my gaze kept drifting up to the sky.

I bit into the onigiri I’d brought, made with Uonuma Koshihikari rice. I’d left it plain so I could savour the rice on its own. As I chewed, I kept looking out at the paddy. The flooded field in front of me and the rice in my hand suddenly felt connected, and it made me want to eat more slowly than usual.

I knew Hoshitoge had about 200 rice paddies, but today I was more interested in a single tree reflected in the water than in counting them. I like photographing a sweeping view, too, but there was something lovely about spending time with one small detail. It was a little pleasure I’d have missed if I’d stayed in the car.

I finished breakfast and tucked the wrapper away. Before setting off, I took one last look at the water. The sky looked brighter now than it had earlier. I think I’ll remember not just how today’s onigiri tasted, but this morning’s view too.