Drooling Azuma

Diary

Once Azuma's eyes were trained on distant banners and the glint of enemy steel, but the day the wars ended his gaze slid, permanently, hungrily, toward the nearest patch of grass, and he tainted his own honor by drooling over a roadside meadow while still mounted, reins slack in his hands, drool tracing a shining path down his chin like a man who'd just aped into a hundred-bagger. His horse, mortified, tried to trot on with dignity; Azuma did not notice, too busy fantasizing about grazing it himself, greedy and gloriously undignified, a warrior with no war left to feed his appetite so he fed it everything else instead. He swears, loudly, to anyone who'll listen at the dojo bar, that tomorrow he begins his reform, disciplined meals, disciplined mind, no more staring slack-jawed at foliage like it's a green candle about to pump. Tomorrow arrives, and Azuma is once again horseback, drooling, this time at a vendor's cart of dango, honor further rugged, resolve nowhere on the floor to be found. Still, he grins through the shame, because a samurai who lost his war can at least lose it with flavor, and Azuma intends to lose spectacularly, mouth open, heart big, standards nonexistent.