The wheat harvest is done, and
Summer has arrived for humans
Massive lush greenery
is now hiding
the path that was visible far ahead

If a poet’s job is
to see what is not visible
human summer is
a season of hell for a minor poet
With a straw hat on his head

a thin fellow is running down a footpath between rice paddies
Some say beautiful poetry hides
a poisonous snake to snare you
He must be flying through a village microcosm
so as not to be bitten by the snake