Yesterday, awaited in the suburbs.
Today, the snow is the master.
Covered for a light winter quarters
The unraveling of yesterday's puddles.
Leveled with birch aspen,
Covered oaks leg defect.
It is soft so that & quot;moccasins"
It feels like boots.
You can't make a mistake sculpting like this,
That he was just from that fairy tale,
Where will you Wake up like a snowman
With his blind hand.
It will be swept away, where pedestrians
You need a firmament under your feet.
It will lie on other roads
It and the sun, where not to warm.
They'll be everywhere in a day
There are dozens of footprints on it.
Big, small people
And their different sizes of boots.
And will be smaller,
What less can not be found.
For their owner, snow is the premiere
From white spots on the way.
Here he stood, looking up at the sky,
Who made the snow he was looking for...
There were no strangers in the sky,
And what kind of snow, he already knew.