As a child, I remember looking at this field with rare birches that grew in the depths of the field. Either a swamp, or a low-lying one, and these thin birches surrounded by bushes so beckoned and called to themselves: and what is behind the swamp? And then what? And then it's scary - and so far away. And the nebulae around are so silent, and lonely silence. Probably, then I began to understand and love our humble, quiet earth, called Russia; and although it is not bright, it is neither high nor broad, and not spectacular as the Caucasus or the Urals, but I will not exchange these meadow meadows and copses for anything. Probably, because here, and not somewhere beyond the sea blue, it was here that my bitter joy and my sweet sadness spread. And do not collect it in the hem and do not get wet with a shirt, everything went to the ground and sprouted grass and it's all me.