Going for a Walk

When I was very small, my grandpa would take me and our dog, Berry, to the riverbank for a walk every day —

Grandpa's hands are so big that I hold his index finger as we walk. 

A glider soars through the sky.
Horsetails sprout and moles peek out from the ground.
Grandpa points at a distant mountain and tells me that it's Mt. Tsukuba.

When Grandpa throws a stick, Berry goes to fetch it.
Then when I throw a stick, Berry goes to fetch that one, too.
This time, Grandpa throws it really far, but Berry still goes to fetch it right away.
When I give Berry some cookies, he even licks my hand.

Grandpa plays a grass whistle.
I can't play a grass whistle, so I make a sound with a shepherd's purse stem instead.

When the warm season arrives, I find mock strawberries among the flowers.
"If you eat them, you'll turn into a snake," says Grandpa.

When the riverbank turns a deep, lush green, I run down it, feeling as though I am about to be swallowed up by the grass.

Grandpa is good at catching grasshoppers.
I can catch them, too.

From time to time, we make our way to the river, pushing through reeds that are taller than Grandpa, 

to gather stones. 

Grandpa collects unusual stones.
I find beautiful stones and give them to Grandpa.

The sun is setting.
Grandpa calls Berry. 

Grandpa and I go home while singing.