Passing a Fishing Village at Evening
Facing the estuary the huts have no gates;
five here, three there, and that makes a village.
Back from fishing, the shore smells raw;
the tide out, the sand has layers of wavy marks.
Through the mist at dusk two white herons fly;
the evening sun, aslant, darkens half the wood.
How much sake have their fish and shrimp procured?
through the willow, at times, I hear their drunken chatter.
five here, three there, and that makes a village.
Back from fishing, the shore smells raw;
the tide out, the sand has layers of wavy marks.
Through the mist at dusk two white herons fly;
the evening sun, aslant, darkens half the wood.
How much sake have their fish and shrimp procured?
through the willow, at times, I hear their drunken chatter.
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