Yellow leaves rustle calmly. The force of an invisible hand drives them away. Or simply - wind. Green grass keeps silent for a while. Then it moves because the wind rushes forward again. Then after this it flies away, hides in the birch leaves. The leaves tinkle slightly, some of them fall down, under the trees. Some of them are carried away to the puddles. Withered remains of the Indian summer sink in the muddy water. The far-away railway echoes in the close forest. Rarely the cars swish on the roadway which runs not far from the settlement, across the gray fields. Some other noise interrupts the silence. Something, maybe an old tree, creaks; it howls lonely as the wind rushes through the cracks in its trunk. The last apple falls down after the leaves. Rains and cold spoilt it. The apple tree can't bear it anymore so it let the fruit off. The apple rolls away into the pale grass. Evening sunrays light up the empty house. Each brick grows scarlet. The wind knocks in the window glass. The air smells wet grass. Suddenly the clouds part, and the sun fully appears in its glory. The apple garden and the fields behind it turn green. The old trunk stops howling. A bird chirps in the bushes before it sleeps in the near night. The shadows on the wall sharpen and darken. Coins of leaves glow gold as the sunrays almost rain light over the birches. The smell of the frost unexpectedly grasps the limpid air. First hoarfrost needles prick the grass, the branches and the footpath. Another night waits. Then it blackens the garden and draws silhouettes on the ink-blue October sky.
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