Marcovicci
Usually leverets are born in late April — early may, when every blade of grass, every leaf greedily reach for the sky. But it does happen in life and long-eared exception.
…The woods were still a lot of snow. Birches, oaks, maples — all asleep. But the dream of their already shallow, he is sensitive, alert. Flies forty if chatty or hit the sushiny beak woodpecker, preselected the wind in bare branches, scattering snow muslin… Alerted the giants — not spring?
Really — do not understand… thavirat snowflakes at dawn, at noon, the sun will Shine because of wet ash clouds. And the shade of blue rugs rasstaratsya along the drifts. Word — neither winter nor spring.
In those days, in a remote corner of the forest you can meet a snow hole. Whose is it? Don’t guess. A hole was dug by the angel. And on the bottom — last year’s rotten leaves. Then the hole will appear tiny leverets, fuzzy, sighted. The first of this year! Their so called — martovitskaya. Because of the long-eared were born in the first month of spring.
Are the rabbits warm in the pit-a cradle. Waiting for the angel of the mother who ran away to pogledati young aspen shoots.
The angel feeds the kids two or three times a day to avoid leaving traces once again about their children. Smart! Know that there are a lot of enemies.
And it so happens that she is getting away, or getting into the sharp teeth of a predator. Then another angel, as he ran by, feed their kids fatty milk. And if not feed, still in two or three days the rabbits will begin an independent life. Will be running briskly through the woods. To look for food. Marcovicci difficult, but the real spring is not far off…
The groom
Tarot wings over mane of reeds, was Drake. Close to my tent he sank down on the island. Marriage dress him — where there is a wedding groom! — was gorgeous: blue-emerald green head, white stripe mufflers, wide chocolate-coloured collar and ashy-blue coat. Rollicking and twisted tail?! Exactly the Hutsul’s hat with colored feathers. What is the posture?! Is not, and sailing on the Golden wet sand, leaving footprints similar to maple leaves. With dignity, like a king, knowing his own worth. What a duck can resist this face, huh?
Think about it, and the gun, in spite of my falls, falls…
…With an empty ahtasham return home. On the lips of the wife smile: “nothing Again?” I dropped the show Drake emerald-feather. The wife smiles, understands that for me there is something above trophy. Well, for one, dawn, is not clogged human golosinas. And the lone duck, waiting for a friend-the spring… And of course, a new poem in his notebook:
On the river the merry crackle —
Ice moved from upstream.
Steam flows. The sun Shine.
The fields and woods breathe Nov.
And nothing will spoil
Wedding ducks at the dam:
Drake feather lit
Not fire — emerald!
