Before prickly hoarfrost paints patterns
on window panes and duck ponds -
I hear, on those ice cold little waters,
the hubbub of geese gossiping
about their flight south.
They watch a gray gloomy sky,
ready to burst into a veil of snow.
I see Yulya standing, watching them gather
their feather-duster tails, then go splashing off in flight.
Her eyes water at the Jack Frost nip, her cheeks blush.
Slowly she wanders Pushkin’s paths,
down to her little Russian town - for tea.
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