Вино из одуванчиков. Повесть и рассказы

Alone she snuggled luxuriously down through the warm snowbank of linen and wool, sheet and cover. Lying there, she felt as small and secret as on those mornings, wakening, she comforted her tender bones in bed.

Because up there on that roof you can see the whole town going toward the country and the country going toward the edge of the earth and the river shining,

The boy was sent, alone, to her whispering bed.

Ninety years gazed calmly out at her physicians like a dust-ghost from a high cupola window in a fast-emptying house.

Her ailment could not be seen in any microscope; it was a mild but ever-deepening tiredness, a dim weighing of her sparrow body; sleepy, sleepier, sleepiest.

She slept quietly and turned no more than three times in a night,

She glided through the halls as steadily as a vacuum machine,

“What’ve I gone and done now!”

None of us would’ve saved the day this way. The summer was sure going bad up to this very minute. August won’t be a total loss.

The sun buzzed in the sky for about five seconds.