Starfall

As a child, I spent a lot of time in the village. A hot, eventful day would slowly fade into golden evening, and the wind, gliding through the treetops, would whisper that summer would never end.
I would return to the city with tears in my eyes, and at night, during a meteor shower, I would make a wish to return sooner. I would look out the window at the moon, comforted by the fact that it was the same as back home—where my grandmother's house was, fields stretching to the horizon, and birches reaching to the sky.
Coming to the village now, I feel as if I emerge from the flow of time and find myself back on the road
along which I used to run barefoot. In the silence, I listen to the aspen trees tremble at the slightest breeze and the dry leaves of the old poplar tinkle. Grasshoppers chirp in the field, and somewhere high above, an airplane flutters. Stepping out onto the porch at night, I tilt my head back: the Milky Way passes over the roof of our house.

A star has fallen and gotten tangled in the curly head of a huge poplar. If you stare at the moon long enough, you begin to
feel like someone is looking back at you. Just a little longer, and I'll remember where I came from.

Old stray dog ​​John rested his head in my hands; it was heavy and warm. The seconds passed. While
my mother prays for me, childhood goes on.