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.