My village is an essay

Many of the most talented Russian poets and writers in their work repeatedly touch upon the theme of their native land, the corner of the Earth to which not only thoughts but also the soul were attached. Indeed, what could be closer to home, the path from the gate that goes into the distance? What else can cause in the depths of the soul such anxiety and a feeling of nostalgia during a long separation, how not the native side?

It is these feelings that cause my village. This is confusion, and delight, and joy, intertwined with tenderness. I love these curves, the branchy streets, drowning in verdure birches and aspens. I love when the first drops of rain persistently knock on wooden shutters when they beat road dust and turn into small streaming brooks and large puddles, in which children and carefree sparrows then splash with such genuine enthusiasm.

I like to hear dogs barking far away, mooing cows, cackling of laying hens and ghoulish geese. A boundless sense of ecstasy

is caused by the dew-washed flowers, near which small insects and bees are rustling around tirelessly…-

It seems to me that only in this amazing corner of our vast country is such crystal clear air, such a large diamond dew, such a riot of flowers. My village is always beautiful. Any temporary time finds its embodiment here. Winter wraps it up with snow, whips through the winds and binds with fierce frosts.

Spring gives warmth, full water and trills of birds. Summer breaks into the village from the meadows and fields, fills it with the scent of mown grass, disturbs the nightly voices and screams of nesting birds, splashes of fish coming to spawn. And autumn generously treats ripe fruits and berries, quietly rustles carpet of fallen leaves, pleases with an amazing, incredible and beautiful palette of colors.

I think that my village is one of the best Russian villages, because it is here that the rays of the setting sun linger on the roofs of wooden houses, slowly sliding over the canopies and cornices. It is in my village that the dawn rushes, because it is so selflessly crooked cocks. Only here is the village life so vigorous. This is my village, my land, my land!

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My village is an essay