It's rice planting time in Ashikaga. Each little square of land or two has its very own hunched-over caretaker toiling away. They seem almost identical, with their wide brimmed hats and tall rubber boots.
Clumps of bright green little plants arrive from someplace unseen, which are then plugged into the mushy earth by hand, one by one in long rows.
A significant percentage of the open space in town has been converted into marshland almost overnight. The smell is much like you'd expect from the swamp. The frogs join a deafening chorus at nightfall.