Golden Indian summer

Golden Indian summer,
The smell of late roses.
Everything is warm around,

The wind of dreams blows.
He is the last, unexpected friend,
Herald of new thunderstorms .

A ray of sunshine, invited guest,
My nose tickles.
The air is all kind of spicy,

Thick, like birch sap.
Lazily puts his paws beside
My furry dog.

A. Barkhatova

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