angel_who_fall @ 2010-06-20T23:46:00 Hood heard a moaning voice of the cranes, and in his heart crept into a bird sadness, I wanted him to ascend into the blue sky. Cranes flew from the south the huge wedge and disappeared into the northern side, filling the air with constant complaints. Their cry was as old as the lake Bawdy as hood as the eternal struggle of man with his fear, and talked about the captivity of passing time. Hood did not like cranes, because those which sit on the moor behind the house doctor asked her slender bodies, and one of them even took aim at one time in its large hood beak. While flying, they all called each other by their groaning voices, it seemed that one could not live without the other, they are already worried by the thought of loneliness, which was used hood. He noticed that people are seeing wedges returning cranes and hear them moaning voice, long watched the flock, as if on them flew hope. And then lower their heads lowered as if someone took away their hope. Crane, however, was smaller with each passing year, in early spring only two or three wedge seen over the lake and forest. It was clear that someday will not come none. So a person will be taken away from his hope, because, more often thought Hood, these flocks of cranes - nothing like arrows of human misery, which in early spring or fall of a person admits to the sun.
then flew flocks of wild geese. They sailed across the sky as the boat Vikings, to the north, all the while to the north. A day or two they stood in the bay. Only the night drowned their voices, though not quite: they always said something to each other, unintelligible, even in his sleep. And the geese were arriving swans, always three. And for a long time there was no rest on the lake no Zatoka. Every now and then with the noise they broke the water wings, chasing each other, attacking, while the third is not flew somewhere else. Because of swans living on the lake became difficult for the creatures who love silence. Never knew when the swans will want to fly or sit on a lake with noise and splash. Eventually They calmed down - this is when a Zatoke they already have. were eggs in the reeds. Since then, they were quiet, and as white spirits, nearly silent then here and there to appear on the blue water. But seagulls squeal for no reason, spent whole days in the relentless scream as if someone had hurt them all the time. From these cries the lake lost its soft blue flowers became brown, even black moments.
And then the hood went into the forest, which blossomed hazel, and woodpeckers began loudly banging their beaks into the trunks of trees. Only in a clearing in the pine saplings, which grew a huge oak tree. Hood could find a bit of relative silence. But not for long, because the field, as a large bowl, collecting the spring sun, quickly blossomed in her blue snowdrops and the young grass was green. Soon Blackbird begins when their endless song. But, despite everything, there was always calm, especially because the old oak tree later than all existing in the forest awakening to life. Its porous-coated stem bark for a long time should have been warm rays of the sun to the old juices slowly walked to the farthest from the earth branches. But then he started to turn green and reclaiming old beauty. He was, as the ancient tower, which stuck in the green young, he was no stranger to the young pines, and distant from them, immersed in lethargy, but still alive, indifferent to the fate of the forest, heard in what was happening to him, and perhaps in all of the void stronger than the crumbling of the barrel. Surprising was the silence of an old oak aged, and how it differed from the gab birch or poplar, linden or alder. What dark secrets believe this stocky trunk, this rough bark, head, proud and spreading?
This spring, udiraya from the bustling Gulf. Hood found in an ancient oak tree, almost at the height of two meters, a small hollow, which masked a branch. And when it spread its wings and jumped up, he saw beneath the dried leaves wrapped in a rag carefully oiled the gun and two packs of cartridges.
© Zbigniew Nenatski. Once a year in Skirolavkah
