In the evening, ...in the constellations, changing
and a blanket,
pulling beauties-winter,
smoke
furnaces up rushing,
from the cold, probably ...dumb!?
Thickened
...Wake up in the chamber of silence,
where every sound is so sharp it hurts
and the echo is drawn by the sound of a string,
somewhere, behind him,...the soul beckons.
Winter weather turned the Ground,
pin down
in the ice, swaddled in snow,
she, at the time, frost listens
and drives...
& nbsp; travelers to the Smoking hearths.
Bear,
curled up in a den,
snoring, exciting ...sleeps...
where is the Russian spirit, knocking down his feet
still,
as in the legends of old.
Tickles the nostrils... the smell of a fairy tale...
eyes of houses... behind the window sashes,
closed, worried about publicity?
Hanging in the sky,
even by day, horned Moon!
Curled,
snow-white fur coats on firs,
fluffy lumps, sparkling...
and, it seems now, actually,
someone will come out of a fairy tale, without hiding!
Moscow, November 30, 2018.