It is Winter in Okinawa.
Then, too, they say, thro’ all the burthen’d Air,
Long Groans are heard, shrill Sounds, and distant Sighs,
That, murmur’d by the Demon of the Night,
Warn the devoted Wretch of Woe, and Death!
Wild Uproar lords it wide: the Clouds commixt,
With Stars, swift-gliding, sweep along the Sky.
All Nature reels. — But hark! the Almighty speaks:
Instant, the chidden Storm begins to pant,
And dies, at once, into a noiseless Calm.
There have been storms. It is cold, I mean like 17 degrees. Japanese ladies sit at work with rugs over their knees. I wear my woolies.
What I do not understand is why so much junk is thrown up onto my beaches. You would think the same volume of flotsam sort of hangs around in the East China Sea whether it is Summer or Winter. Notwithstanding, orders of magnitudes more beach garbage is thrown up during Winter.
“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.”