Why am I not an artist?
In my childhood, when I went to school, I really loved our schoolyard. But not in the summer, when it blooms and smells. And not in winter, when it is white, fluffy and magical. And not even in the spring, when we surrounded the whole class with the care of the frail vegetation of our flowerbeds. I do not know why, but the schoolyard excited my mind at dawn and at the end of September.
Cool autumn morning. I, as usual, are late for school, and this fact makes my thoughts surprisingly poetic. I walk up to the old gate, behind which is a half-fallen hawthorn, and I see on branches of tits: small and twitchy, like toy. And down in the withered grass, dusty gray sparrows swish, to which, narrowing the pupils of unwholesome green eyes, along the fence sneaks a cunning, skinny cat ....
I enter the yard through a creaky wicket. It is quiet and fresh. Under his feet wet, all in the cracks and fallen leaves asphalt. Proudly alone thin young maples, dazzling their golden radiance all around. Above the ground thick fog thickens, enveloping their trunks. a little further away - a round of young birches, for which September threw a handful of gold coins. Among them was a strong low mountain ash covered with heavy ruby bunches.
Fluctantly dark gray clouds are floating in the sky. And only a torn hole in one of them pours a thin sunbeam. Having reached the golden maple foliage, it crumbles into thousands of dazzling reflections. From this spectacle is breathtaking. I want to run into the arms of the fog, swinging a sack with replaceable shoes, and hugging the wet foliage ...
But here in front of me grow the brick walls of the school. And their windows of the physics cabinet on the second floor are waving my classmates, showing on my wrist. I glance at the clock and, having reconsidered, rushing along the corridors, deeply sighing: "Why am I not an artist?". Here is such a memory)