Four seasons: Winter

This is another piece of my old writing. I believe I have written it when I was 17-18. It was intended as a journey through 4 season, though I only have winter preserved on my PC now.

High snowy peaks rose on every side. It seemed as though the sky, like an old Indian yogi, was lying upon the sharp mountain summits. Lonely clouds impaled themselves on them like heavily laden merchant ships upon reefs. If they had been ships, the whole valley would have been covered with the treasures of distant lands.

The wind, like a pack of wild wolves, circled around me and bit at every part of my chilled body, which longed for warmth. Under these gusts my cloak would either flutter behind my back or wrap itself around my legs, pushing me toward a snowdrift.

The sun still shone high, promising a long day, but that was all deception. It would very quickly retire, vanishing from my sight behind the mountain ridge. Before that moment, I had to cross the pass; otherwise, the wind and frost would give my skin a delicate bluish shade, and it would glow beautifully in the rays of the rising sun — but I would not live to see it. At times, such dreadful beauty gives you a second wind. I quickened my pace, trying to keep to the edge of the valley, where the snow, unlike in the middle, reached only to my knees.

When only a few hundred meters remained to the top of the pass, my worst enemy, the wind, decided to drive my modest person out of its kingdom and began shoving me in the back.

Only a little time passed, and I was already standing on the pass itself. Behind me lay the realm of snow and cold. Somewhere there, pressed against the mountains, hung clouds from which millions of snowflakes were falling. Ahead, there was still a little snow — the work of the restless wind — but farther on, the valley bent away, hiding most of the landscape. Still, a hint of green was already visible, wrapped in gray haze, along with the same dull gray ribbon of a river.

The wind was still pushing me in the back, but its blows grew weaker and weaker, and beyond the bend they disappeared altogether. Here everything was different: in the little hollows, grass and flowers had already found shelter, though for the most part only shrubs grew here, with greenish thorns and stems.

The sun gradually descended, stepping down from the heavenly stage; it had played its role in the first act. Intermission. And I had to look for shelter.

Having gathered a bundle of brushwood along the way, I continued descending. And, hurrah, I found it: two stones leaning toward one another, their tops touching — an improvised wigwam for an improvised Indian. I crawled inside. Beautiful. Plenty of room. After dropping the brushwood near the entrance to my dwelling, I went to bring stones so I could fence off a place for my improvised stove.

A few minutes later, the fire was already crackling cheerfully, and the intermission was coming to an end, so I went to take my seat. There were no three bells. In complete silence, the gray curtain of the evening sky slid aside, and the first actor-dancers of this night ball appeared on the stage.

As always, after the first guests came the next ones. Gradually the hall filled with new stars, and then — music. In the center of the Milky Way, lovers joined together in dance, while at the edges remained the sorrowful stars: they were alone at this ball. At the height of the dance, the moon floated elegantly into the sky, eclipsing part of the stars.

A pity there was no real music — quiet, refined, elegant. Musicians do not live so high up; they need warmth. Although perhaps I, too, am a bit of a musician — I also love warmth.

And so I left the stars and the moon to dance on without me, climbed into my palace, threw a little more brushwood onto the fire, and sank into sweet sleep.

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