Город линяет к лету. Ставится гадким утенком, серым...

The city is molting by the summer. It is set as an ugly duckling, gray and defenseless. The undeveloped old film. An unwashed window since autumn. A rusty barrel in the country, where the snow has not yet melted. Turning the roundabout, the city bashfully squinted at the bright warm light. He came to us unwashed, sleepy, half-dressed. Rolling out of ginger maple branches into a leaky shawl, sleepyness grumbles and stumbles, waiting for the onset of summer. His lawns are disheveled, his yards are unsightly. He is uncomfortable, because it seems that now he is not in order. Like a cold, sick, sweating melt water. But I want carousels, walks, and behind my back to make time rumble, I stroked my cheek with the sun, so that I could go down on a swing! Up on the Ferris Wheel! To the island on the boat, on the field to horseback. At sunset, a small factory smoke, across the river - the soul somersault. Across the river are shadows, hide and seek, coffee, wine, pizza, love and jazz. And the city is happening here, drinking beer with you now, chasing a bicycle, leading a dog for a walk. He, like you, lives in summer. We have to wait a bit.
In the meantime, he molts, withers, drinks ginger tea, grimacing.
Outside the unwashed window, spring frantically flashes over the edge.