Under something, there is always shade.

That dimness is cast by what stands above, yet it is also a space of its own.

Within that space, something remains—

things that could not be swept away by sun, rain, or wind;

things that failed to find a place in brightness gather under the shade, pushing and pulling against one another.

There, where light and shadow stand shoulder to shoulder, they feed on light and shadow, share them, and harden, layer by layer.

What accumulates eventually sheds its form and becomes whole and bare.

Rice, in this place, appears as a familiar presence that permeates life; born soft, it gathers, is pressed, endures, and hardens.

Under light, things disperse and disappear. Light reveals things, but does not allow them to remain.

Under, by contrast, is a place that leaves things behind without holding onto them.

What has been pushed out of movement, what could not be clarified, finally settles here— leaning on one another under it.

Nature does not explain itself,

but the shade under it records much.