birds [Theme]

And only people have judgments to match them, very angular ones.

The wind chime strokes her hair gently. Windchime says: Cry

Another day of spring. If only humanity would blossom, common sense would blossom, the shoots of change would rise and ripen to fruition. I never stop believing in miracles, but in essence this is what saves me.

Here we have pear trees in bloom and apple trees unfolding. The weather was lovely, warm and even the rain, which was so desirable, passed on the third day. The forest is opposite, across the river; greenery - like in popular prints. All around, winter trees are beginning to take on a silvery tint. In the forest, nightingales sing, other birds echo them... Various ordinary people pester me so much with requests, with bills, peddlers with goods, that every minute I am ready to loudly tell them: Let's go

Where are we going to fly?

And the high flight of these proud, illustrious birds.

A piece of the sun broke off and scattered around the world like golden petals. The day has become noticeably longer, and the birds are more talkative. A girl was walking along the sidewalk. A mischievous blush played on her cheeks, and spring was reflected in her eyes. A row of perennial fluffy spruce trees lined the road. Having straightened the lush branches, they also enjoyed the warmth and light. Marvelous,

The sun slightly cracked on the turquoise tablecloth of the sky like a ripe tangerine... Juicy splashes of rays drip onto the windowsills and almost ring with a spring drop... Birds joyfully preen their feathers in light streams of wind, raising their heads to the bottomless sky, praising it and saying hello. .. The thick ink of the night spreads like watercolors from the palette of the new day... Take it, draw or just trust the Great Artist and he himself will bring out new everyday life with his own hand...

This morning I noticed for the first time that the birds were singing again. We've arrived, that is! There is a pleasant sipping in my soul, as if some long forgotten strings have been touched. I love this time when the world has not yet let go of February, but spring is already very close. You feel it along with the morning light, timidly peeking through the window just after seven, it is in the strawberry-pink evening clouds with whipped cream, in the hatching fragile crocuses. And I want to cry for some reason, but out of happiness. Happy to be alive.

The sun is pouring across the floor of the house. I pour fragrant tea into a snow-white, Japanese-style cup. I lean towards a fresh bouquet of tulips. I feel a subtle, barely perceptible aroma. It smells like melting snow, the first greenery and the approaching spring. And the soul is immediately drawn to flowers, to sunny bunnies merrily jumping along the wall. Very soon... a thaw, clear murmuring streams, feather clouds on the watercolor-stained sky and birds returning home. For now, only tulips. A sensitive, gentle guide to spring...

In a straight line, like birds fly.

Breathing life into the suit again.

To a happy land, where there is no powerlessness...

Birds cannot be kept in a cage, it is a sin. a bird in captivity never sings as much as it does in freedom.