The cloud shuddered with blue flame. Thunder rumbled slowly.
It either intensified or almost died down. And the rain, obeying the thunder, began to fall harder at times and rustle widely through the leaves, then stopped.
Soon the sun broke through the clouds. The old Pushkin Park in Mikhailovskoye and the steep banks of Soroti were ablaze with red clay and wet grass.
A slender rainbow lit up across the cloudy distance. It sparkled and smoked, surrounded by wisps of ashen clouds.
The rainbow looked like an arch erected on the border of a protected land. Here, in Pushkin’s places, thoughts about the Russian language arose with particular force.
Here Pushkin wandered with his head uncovered, with his cold hair tangled by the autumn wind, listening to the wet hum of the pine tops, looking, squinting,
from where the autumn clouds rush, I rushed around the fairs. Here wonderful words overwhelmed him, oppressed his soul and, finally, were composed, one by one, with the stub of a goose feather, into ringing stanzas.
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