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And today I saw ashberry, lots of ashberry. The branches are tilting to the ground.
It is so strange, just a week ago there was none of it at all.
A few bright sunny days, and it picked up the juice, filled with a form.
Not yet red, not yet the harbinger of winter. Bright orange with thick heavy bunches.
August is such an amazing month.
Everything just filled with summer heat, raspberry and blackberry is gaining juice and sweetness.
And the maslin has already been prepared, and the stove will soon be flooded outside. The amazing smell of raspberry-bilberry jam will gather around it a lot of wasps, they will sit on the copper edge, burning their paws, and drink this sweet nectar. And in the winter, it will treat for the blues and feverish temperature.
And the foam of gently pink color, airy and light, can be immediately smacked with hot, only from the pan pancakes.
Light sadness slips. There is not even a hint of crimson foliage, and curly clouds play high in the sky, but the soul is whining a little bit.
Eternal August. Savior of the Honey Feast Day.
Small jars lined up in straight rows. The leaves of currant and cherry are laid out in the shade in the light wind. Garlic has grown, small, but it’s yours.
Grown on your own land. Dill umbrellas, dried by a careful hand, are waiting, waiting for their glass jars.
And a pear, small and not like its southern sisters, is already showered on the ground. And small apple trees bend down branches with rare, but large fruits, gleam in the sun with red sides.
Once I saw a century-old apple garden. Under the Bryansk. In Svensky Monastery. Low trees located on the outside of the walls. Crooked, gnarled branches.
And you think, how do they live and how much have they seen in their age? With the caring hands of the monks the trunks were whitewashed, and wooden planks shore the branches. And apples! So much – bulk, on each branch, generously.
And the scent is such that the head is unwittingly dope. And I want to stay here, next to the magnificent walls of the monastery with golden angels on the steeples and breathe, breathe. To look from the high coast to the Sven River, to its calm and even waters. On a leisurely stream, pouring into the Desna river winding with fancy patterns.
I want to keep this place of power so deeply in my heart, this century-old apple garden, this aroma of hot, juice-filled fruits. To keep and warm on it in rainy October.
And now it is just August.
With a light, gentle breeze.
With bright orange fruits of ashberry in deep greens.