I first learned about the microseasons during my second year in Japan when I was wandering thru Tokyo one day in February, and had an experience that introduced me to the bush warblers singing microseason.<p>I was looking for this bookshop owned by an older woman named yumi, who supposedly had a collection of ancient poems and stories, many of which encompassed the lore of the 72 kō (I never did end up finding it, sadly I had to leave Tokyo the next day, but would be nice to know if someone here has heard of it / visited).<p>while weaving through the backstreets of shibuya, i was entranced by a faint, melodious chirping that seemed out of place amidst the city's usual cacophony.<p>Following the sound, i found myself before this dilapidated, ivy-covered wooden house. A hand-painted sign hung at the entrance. "Oshiro's birds" I think it said<p>Anyway Oshiro was sitting outside and graciously welcomed me in. His living room was packed with birdcages, borderline horder situation. but everything was in beautiful condition, meticulously cleaned. Each cage was home to a bush warbler. the air was filled with their songs, transporting me miles away from the city, to misty mountains and serene valleys.<p>Oshiro explained the Japanese microseasons to me, and told me about a centuries-old family tradition that centered one in particular. every year, around the onset of february, when the microseason announced the singing of bush warblers, he would embark on a pilgrimage into the mountains. there, he would sit for hours, sometimes days, listening, absorbing, and sometimes even conversing with these birds through his bamboo flute. It was a ritual passed down through generations in his family.<p>I spent that afternoon with Oshiro, sipping on aged sake, as he told me about his strange (to me) ritual. He played his flute a bit, its notes intertwining with the bird songs, creating a symphony that felt as old as the mountains themselves. Each chirp, each note, was a story, a memory of ages gone by.<p>as the sun set, casting a golden hue on the room, i realized i hadn’t just discovered a bird enthusiast. in Oshiro, i had met a guardian of time, a man who, year after year, preserved a slice of japan's essence, ensuring that even in the heart of its busiest city, the song of the bush warbler would never fade away.<p>It is pretty beautiful how such small, centuries-old traditions seem to abound in Japan, where the condition of the west seems to be a state of persistent impermanence.