Among those of the village, when the ripened wheat sways in the wind, they say “the wolf is running.”

The flowing shape of the wheat itself bares the appearance of a wolf running through the fields, thus it is called.

And so, when the wind is overbearing strong and the wheat is bent down it is said the wolf has trampled them, In times of poor harvest it is said that the wolf has devoured them.

“Such sayings are pleasing to the ear, yet they also belay trouble, as a crack in a gem” so I thought.

However as of late, these have become mere folk sayings. Few remain who utter those words with adoration and awe as was once done in the past.

The autumn sky when viewed from amidst the gently swaying ears of wheat has remained unchanged for centuries yet, the appearance of all those below that sky has become unrecognizable.

The years come and go and the lives of the villagers who tend the wheat are 70 at their longest.

Yet perhaps so many centuries renaming unchanged is actually for the worse....

“And yet, because of this, Perhaps there is no reason for me to uphold that old promise any longer” I also pondered.

More than anything, I feel I am no longer needed in this place.

The mountains rising to the east give the clouds of the village a northerly drift.

The flow of those clouds brings to my mind memories of my home to the north, carrying a sigh to my lips with them.

I find my gaze turning from the sky back to the fields. A vision of my proud tail catches my eye.