Loshad i ledi

And one day she reached the place that she dreamed of.
The grasses in the water looked like squids.
Hurrying cars coming from somewhere above to the side were signaling to each other,
Shouting and striving to overtake time,
Which is now frozen, like a mare behind her back,
Looking forward to sunset.
After all, in Indian summer they always fly somewhere,
Dreaming of a long-awaited weekend
Barbecue and fishing, as no longer swim.
In alcoholic intoxication, you can break away,
But, Indian summer is not about fading flowers and falling asleep nature.
It's not whispering weather and a slight breeze
Before rather cool evenings and nights.
For her, Indian summer is something that she has not yet had time to taste,
What I was afraid of but wanted to let into my heart for a long time,
To spread the wings while they are still heavy and not completely dry.
Her Indian summer is a blanket, cheese, wine and Mark Twain,
Which you want to re-read, plunging into the world of the past,
Warm, warily unresolved, sometimes generalized,
But damn colorful and irrevocable.
If there was a desire to gallop, she would not be shy.
But, on that day, she only stood, held out an apple, hugged,
Packed up and flew away.
On the canvas, juicy grass, nature, water, and a horse,
Which thinks not about the summer and the whirlpool of events.
She has nothing to do with us. She was just taken out for a walk on the field,
With the phrase "look after the filly" ...

Canvas. Oil. 100x70.
September 2022