My novel remains unfinished.
A tomtit stands outside the window this afternoon. His head tips back and forth, as if he’s forgotten a verse of an important melody.
I soak in the warmth of sunlight, as unexpected visitors silently study one another.
Around me the dacha protests the warming day.
He sings. No, not forgetfulness. Perhaps he expects someone else. It ends.
The golden tomtit waits, watching. Grandfather’s pipe lays sentimentally on the shelf with his papers. Memories hum and whistle a bird’s song. Words of encouragement from a time not far.
Life is a beautiful struggle. Back to work.
Photo is copyright by matryosha.