The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

warm water wore a soft, golden sheen, like the pelts
of fox cubs, against the silent black of the evergreens.
Nara came into view.
As they descended through the pines along the
hills, the great, soaring, protecting roof of the Tōdaiji
and the golden kite tails at its gables were Nara.
The car moved through quiet streets, past plain,
awning-shaded old shops with white gloves and other
wares hung out for sale. They came to Nara Park. The
sun was stronger, the cicada calls that hammered at
the back of Honda’s head were intenser. White spots
on summer deer floated up through dappled sunlight.
Turning onto the Tenri Highway, they passed
through shining fields. To the right from a casual little
bridge a road led to Obitoké and Obitoké Station; to
the left, another to the hills at the base of which lay the
Gesshuuji. Fringing the paddies, it was now paved,
and the drive to the lower gate was an easy one.