This morning brought the first frost—0 °C. Autumn has arrived in full, and the air carries that unmistakable scent of the season. The forest floor is abundant with mushrooms: Macrolepiota, Suillus, Russula, and many others scattered across the leaf litter.
The blackthorn (Prunus spinosa) bushes are heavy with dark blue sloes, while the rosehips (Rosa canina) glow bright red along the path. Between them, among the mushrooms, Maiden pinks (Dianthus deltoides) still bloom—small yellow flowers of cinquefoil (Potentilla sp.) shine through, and the tall, pale seed heads of grasses catch the light. The maples (Acer sp.) are turning red.
After a long break following the outbreak of trichomonosis, we’ve resumed putting out seed mix for the birds. Great tits and Blue tits (Parus major, Cyanistes caeruleus), along with both House and Eurasian tree sparrows (Passer domesticus, Passer montanus), descended on the feeders immediately. A woodpecker (Dendrocopos sp.) has made several appearances in the neighbor’s chestnut tree.
My Indian died. He was a cat I had for nearly half my life. Lately, he had gone completely deaf, his eyes had failed him, and finally, his legs gave out too. He was 20.5 years old. He passed quietly in his sleep. I was with him, stroking him—his paws still twitched in the dream, perhaps running through some meadow. His breathing slowed, then stopped completely.
Skeptic though I am, I opened the window so his Indian soul could travel on to the eternal hunting grounds.
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