The composition “My favorite tree is birch”

The composition “My favorite tree is birch”

A small work on the topic “Tree” tells the reader about the growing under the window birch, grandmother of the same age. Beautiful in any season, the tree pleases the eye with frosty garlands of branches in winter, the bright green of the forested foliage in the spring, gracefully shivering in the wind earrings in the summer and the juiciness of the variegated colors in the autumn.

My hometown is small, but very clean and cozy. A well-groomed park is a favorite place for recreation of local residents. The central boulevard, wide and spacious, is lined with chestnut trees, which blossom with lush greenery and blossoming candles all May-June.

Under the window of my house grows an old, spreading birch. She is much older than me, because even my beloved grandmother

remembers this little birch tree, thin with delicate earrings on fragile, flexible branches. Now it rises above the five-story building, majestic in its splendor and white-barrel slenderness.

In winter, the birch stands with a crystal chandelier, shivering, and sparkling with frosty branches in the cold rays of the January sun. When the snow falls asleep completely in the birch crown, it becomes like a fairy tale with twisted turrets and carved columns.

The arrival of spring abruptly changes the birch, frozen in hibernation, releasing its flexible branches from the snow and dotting them with swollen buds. Together with the protruding leaves, yellow-green catkins appear, trembling in the gusts of the March wind.

By the summer, the birch tree is already dissolving the emerald strands of its riotous braids and thrillingly excites with paillettes of elegant, carved leaves. In the hot midday it’s so nice to just sit in her saving shadow, resting her back on a cool, black and white trunk, and peering through the trembling of leaves with the bottomless blue of the sky.

The colors of the autumn pore long and carefully paint every round, birch leaf with gold ornament, starting with delicate edgings. By November, on a white trunk of a birch, a magnificent dome, frozen with a sparkling fountain of flowing jets of leaves, is already hanging.

My favorite tree pleases me relentlessly, at any time of the year, always exciting my heart in anticipation of a miracle.


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The composition “My favorite tree is birch”