August. The month when you stubbornly try to stop time. I'm 15 again. Soon the storks will fly away, and so will my summer friends, back to their own towns. Dusk is falling. The smell of burning weeds. I breathe this air in deeply, to imprint the last carefree days in my memory. Bliss. I look around. I see how everything breathes with life. The cows come in from pasture to be relieved of their milk. The fields are heavy with harvest. People bustle about the yards, settling the livestock for the night. Tomorrow it's up at six to dig potatoes, though I may not get back until nearly dawn. But that doesn't bother me; I even like it. I want to get it all done in time. The pleasant weariness of working the land lets you truly appreciate rest. A cool breeze. In my hands a slice of sweet watermelon, and all around, warm family talk. That is what the end of summer is, to me. I'm little again.

A photo where I'm about 15. I'm in Drozdivka, and my hair is burgundy.