Mikhail Borisovich Bar. (№ 263825)

In the ravines still March, and on hills it's April. Frustrate dry and empty grey stem, blows him, and out of the hole will leave the remnants of the cold winter air. Squeeze his ear to warm from the sun the birch and listening to seething and bubbling in the depths of the trunk of the sweet juice as it is starting to turn green, even colorless after a long winter of chlorophyll molecules, inside the billions of cells frantically scurrying around trillions of mitochondria, nuclei and some completely invisible even to the strongest microscope, bubbles, and specks without any name, how cells divide, divide, divide day and night tirelessly in order to hatch resinous buds which will swell until until they burst with a Bang and will not splash in all directions a newborn leaves.