Early in the morning, I stepped on the dew-soaked moss path into the wild cherry Valley. The golden sun slanted through the branches, cutting the mist into suspended columns of light, and the petals of the sky were falling like floss crushed by the wind.

The stream moves between the stone Spaces like a transparent flute. Water spiders gently ripple and unwrap concentric circles, turning the reflected sakura shadows into liquid pastels. The moss expands as fast as the naked eye can see on the decaying wood, the yellow violets burst from the green fluff, and the ants carry pollen grains to and from the calyx, weaving the longitude and latitude of spring.

The whole valley suddenly came alive as the pine wind swept over the tops of the trees. Dandelion seeds ride the air, the bulbul wings flutter up a stream of dew, and the new maple leaves appear translucent emerald in the backlight. I suddenly saw that among the dead ferns of the late autumn of last year, a few shoots were opening up the stale leaves, like a baby's clenched fist.

As dusk descends over the ridge, the last glow of the evening gives the cherry blossoms an amber glow. The birds flitted over the branches, and the fallen petals whirled and fell into the stream, as if a silent waltz were being played between heaven and earth. The breath of humus soil with the sweet juice of the grass and wood came, and some ancient rhythm shook gently in the veins - the breath of spring was the heartbeat of the earth.