Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Iwalkeddownthewindowstoonewheretheshadepoppedsoftlyinandoutwiththebreeze,andIpressedmyforeheadupagainstthemesh.Thewirewascoldandsharp,andIrolledmyheadagainstitfromsidetosidetofeelitwithmycheeks,andIsmelledthebreeze.It’sfallcoming,Ithought,Icansmellthatsour-molassessmellofsilage,clangingtheairlikeabell—smellsomebody’sbeenburningoakleaves,leftthemtosmolderovernightbecausethey’retoogreen.

           It’sfallcoming,Ikeptthinking,fallcoming;justlikethatwasthestrangestthingeverhappened.Fall.Rightoutsidehereitwasspringawhileback,thenitwassummer,andnowit’sfall—that’ssureacuriousidea.

           IrealizedIstillhadmyeyesshut.IhadshutthemwhenIputmyfacetothescreen,likeIwasscaredtolookoutside.NowIhadtoopenthem.Ilookedoutthewindowandsawforthefirsttimehowthehospitalwasoutinthecountry.Themoonwaslowintheskyoverthepastureland;thefaceofitwasscarredandscuffedwhereithadjusttornupoutofthesnarlofscruboakandmadronetreesonthehorizon.Thestarsupclosetothemoonwerepale;theygotbrighterandbraverthefarthertheygotoutofthecircleoflightruledbythegiantmoon.ItcalledtomindhowInoticedtheexactsamethingwhenIwasoffonahuntwithPapaandtheunclesandIlayrolledinblanketsGrandmahadwoven,lyingoffapiecefromwherethemenhunkeredaroundthefireastheypassedaquartjarofcactusliquorinasilentcircle.