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White mist

White fog... White snow, white sky, there is nothing to catch with the eye. White silence, and only the wind drives the driftwood, sometimes there are hummocks. Quickly and unexpectedly, and most importantly - do not fly out of the saddle, or even worse - do not roll over. Only more adventurous riding can save. Sometimes black fishermen muffle like penguins. But there are few of them, since February - the fish sleeps in pits.

They say, from the echosounder it is clear that it costs three or four meters, like a herring in jars. The belly to the back, the barrel to the barrel - raznjachkom and all over the pits. Even a predator does not care for them, and only a white silence... From a long look at this, the blue pillars starting to look up begin to appear. Zaplutat once or twice to spit. How did the coachmen so perished in the vast snowy steppes?

And here the snow is covered with ice. Where the snowmobile carries you - and you do not know. If only the eye clings to anything, to see the familiar silhouette in the whitish haze. But the heart, but the soul sings. God, how we live vainly, we all need something. But you do not have to do anything...

To see these snow and this white silent space... How easily and well you understand these penguin fishermen. Let him not bite, but they really have true happiness.

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