Summary “White Goose”
If the military ranks were appropriated to the birds, then this goose should have been given to the admiral. All he had was an admiral: a stance, a gait, and a tone, as he talked to other village geese.
He walked important, pondering every step.
When the goose on the shallows rose to its full height and waved its elastic one and a half meter wings, a ripple of gray rustled and rustled the coastal reeds.
This spring, as soon as the country roads cleared, I packed my bicycle and started to open the fishing season. As I drove along the village, the White Goose, having noticed me, bent down his neck and with a menacing hissing moved forward. I barely managed to fence off my bicycle.
“There’s a dog!” said the village boy who had come running. “Other geese are like geese, but this one.” No one gives a pass. He has gusiata now, and he is fiercely speaking.
“And where is their mother?” I asked.
“The goose
“You are a frivolous bird!” And dad! Nothing to say, educate a generation.
Quarreling with the goose, I did not notice how the cloud crawled from behind the forest. It grew, rose a gray-gray heavy wall, without lumens, without a crack, and slowly and inevitably devoured the blue of the sky.
The geese stopped plucking the grass, raised their heads.
I barely managed to put on my cloak, as a cloud broke through and hit me with a cold oblique shower. Geese, spreading their wings, fell into the grass. Under them hid.
Suddenly, on the peak of the cap, something struck hard, and a white pea dropped to my feet.
I looked out from under my cloak. Gray hairs of the hail dragged along the meadow.
The white goose was sitting with his neck extended high. The hail struck him on the head, the goose jerked and closed his eyes. When a particularly large hailstone hit the crown of the head, he flexed his neck and shook his head.
The cloud raged with increasing power. It seemed that she, like a sack, had spread all over, from
The geese could not stand it and ran. Here and there, in the grass mixed with hail, the ruffled heads of the goslings flashed, their plaintive squealing was heard. Sometimes the squeak suddenly broke off, and the yellow “dandelion”, excised by the hail, drooped into the grass.
And the geese all fled, crouching to the ground, fell heavily from the cliff into the water and hammered under the bushes of the lair. After them small pebbles fell into the river kids – the few that managed to reach.
At my feet were no longer round peas, but pieces of hastily rolled ice that hurt me on the back painfully.
The cloud swept by as suddenly as it ran. The meadow, warmed by the sun, once again turned green. In the fallen wet grass, as if in networks, the excised goslings became entangled. They died almost everything, and not reaching the water.
In the middle of the meadow the white hummock did not melt. I walked closer. It was the White Goose. He lay, spreading his mighty wings and stretching his neck along the grass. A trickle of blood ran down his beak from the small nostril.
All twelve fluffy “dandelions”, whole and unharmed, pushing and choking each other, spilled out.
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