Between a thick row of pines,
wading the beam slips.
On heat so between springs,
in the winter a fire comes through.
Glare scattering throwing,
small crumbs in the snow.
From the lights twinkling,
leaving a trail on the run.
Decorating the pine forest,
the secret of a fairy-tale day.
Every time it's new again,
from frost slightly ringing.
Showering without a hitch,
a pile of snow will fall.
Wondrous amused light,
the lump is growing, growing.
Hiding a hare from a Fox,
confusing to SLI down the nose.
There's a chariot track next to it,
someone threw firewood to the cart.
Why? Why leave it?
Who scared my grandfather?
What did he say,
once the heel still fell.
But there are no other tracks,
quiet around and grace.
Maybe my grandfather was ashamed,
he cuts down the forest to match himself.
This is speculation, guesswork,
the main thing is our forest.
The berries are very sweet,
handiwork, so as not to disappear.
So after the Millennium,
astonished by its beauty.
A hare ran between the pines,
necessarily with a Fox.
02.01.2020