desire to at least
It’s frosty. Fifteen degrees in the morning. Under a high shore, on the slopes of which a small village is spread, there are about thirty fidgets sitting on a frosty morning on ice more than a cozy TV chair. Boers crawl in the ice, smiles sparkle under a frosty mustache, someone is already warming up, pushing a neighbor heavily in the shoulder. He answers the same. Do not bite …
It doesn’t bite me either, and therefore I’m tired of looking for this elusive white-eyed sopa, I am sitting in a tent and chasing teas. The receiver purrs, in a tent warmed by the sun, it is warm and somehow cozy in the kitchen.
The nod of one of the fishing rods shook and I, having dropped the lid from a thermos with hot tea, was reaching for hooking. Ugh, you! .. It wasn’t worth fussing: the ruff, having bent its tail scantily, as if a soldier with a hint of salute, were looking at me with bulging eyes. Here it is … Volga fish, on a hook … And the local grandfather said that he had not done more than one hole before the hydroelectric station during the winter. As he breaks a lane in the first ice, so all winter and catches from it a bream, blue dander, pike perch, perch, and closer to spring – and a thick-bellied ide. There were times… Continue reading