A tinge of yellow
On the forsythia bush;
The air is heavy.
Tilting to the right;
Sign seems to regain balance;
Rough winter's over.
How gray the morning
Rushing streams push on swiftly;
Softly blowing breeze.
Red truck approaches;
It flashes its lights at me;
It's my friend Samvid.
Footballs in the mud;
Crumpled soccer net is down.
The games are over.
Green, mushy and wet;
The woods exude a faint smell.
I'm a child again.
A quick flash of white
Disappears into the woods.
How many deer are there?
Distant cry of geese
Moves unseen across the sky;
Then all is silence.
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