Так странно, когда с неба падает дождь...

It is so strange when rain from the maple and pear seeds falls from the sky. When you don’t have the strength to write about it, but you want to, because if no one knows, then that's it! And the clouds are flying - gray, dark - blocking the bottomless blue sky, which is visible only in the gaps. It’s rare here, so that both clouds and sky; either everything is gray and it is raining, or the sun.

And I write about this on a sheet of paper on the back of which is written a congratulation on my birthday from last year, I'm sitting on the street, and stamens from somewhere above, faded flowers, fall on a white sheet. How quickly everything fades, that’s the lilac planted by the former owner of the house with a Polish surname, not the same as a week ago. Already not so pure and magnificent, but still fragrant. And rare dandelions stick out from the ground, if you blow it, they will fly, light. Birds sing the most different around. In essence, “wait five minutes,” as Mark Twain once said, “and the weather will change!” The sun had already peeked out in the gap between the clouds ... and again it disappeared, behind another one rushing somewhere and why ... but again it seemed, slightly, not completely, that’s why the solar disk became distinguishable, although it was usually hidden under glowing bright light.

And quiet. Even strange, sirens do not howl, mowers do not buzz with neighbors, how everyone hid !? Only the smell of cooking on the grill flies from somewhere, and the wind still catches up with semi-dry flowers and leaves, and drives the clouds - gust, quieter, still gust, again ... gust, and quieter! Yes, it’s a pity ... that the street is no longer decorated with lush outfits of trees, but certainly it should be, it’s better!

Mmm, what a smell! Meat! In general, the smell even resembles a bathhouse or something in between.

Two bumblebees, flying, fight in the air - what did not divide?

And the lilac is overtaken by the predatory paws of the local loach, does not allow it to sprawl, keeps within its limits, and even he crawls with sharp thorns every year more and more. And the birch in front of the house is stunted, stunted, now it can even dry up. It’s hard here ... birch trees, neither Japanese nor Russian - no luck! After all, in America it’s impossible not to lose your mind - the soil is too fertile for this. In a figurative sense, of course. And if you take it directly, then the soil here is very ungrateful, that no matter what you plant in it, nothing grows, only some ivy and prickly looms, from which, if you touch, you can catch rooting insect, and yellow bubbles will go down your skin. Birch trees do not take root here. Under my window, I’d like to call it - not a white, but a poor birch. Three branches broke her by the wind, or something else. The neighbors cut off the appendages. Her second half - Japanese - began to dry immediately. Well, no luck here. Oh ...

And that spring, I thought that every moment is unique! This is both deeply sad and at the same time innocently beautiful. Wine stupefied my head with flowers, this stream carried away thoughts high, high, easy, almost insanely gently - this is how the soul trembles, trembling on the strings of madness. Innocent nature is omnipotent in power and greatness!


© E.R.