Alexander Makarov. It's too early to bury us (№ 426798)

January was deaf and blind. Lazy and cruel. The dirty ice on the sidewalks, strewn with sand, looked angrily up at the passers-by. Naked trees along the road bared their teeth, pulled their branches twisted by frost, like beggars on the porch, “give, give, give,” periodically clung to the hair, to the fur coat, as if trying to tear it apart.