Everyone rests in different ways. Some like reading a book at home, some spend time at front of the computer, others party in a nightclub. As for me – I can really relax only being alone in nature's lap. Neither in the mountains, nor at sea, nor in the forest, but in the native Cavalersky steppe where everything around is open to my sight. Far is the horizon! Somewhere out there exist other worlds, but right here the grasshoppers chirring, jumping over the grass blades. Frisky lizards bask in the sun, and high in the sky larks sing their songs. I'm comfortable and pleasant in the steppe in the spring – in the time when it is filling up with greenery, awakening from sleep – as well as in the summer, when the meadow covers with ripe wild strawberries; and in the fall, when it goes gray of feather grass shimmering like sea waves; and in the winter, when everything is gleaming white all around, and only the traces left on the snow show that the steppe is living. Right here one can see a hare dodging – over there – wolf pack jogging. The drawings on the white snow could tell a lot, they are akin to the letters on a sheet of paper. The main thing is to be able to read them. In the summer, I happened to shepherd a herd of cows in the steppe, and, while they were grazing slowly chewing the cud, I put a field bag under my head and insensibly fell asleep, then waking up and looking around, whether the herd had run to the farm field or not. No. The cows are still in the same place. The sun is burning – it’d better seek for a tree, at least – some shade. No avail. It’s a steppe… The steppe has seen many things in its lifetime. Herds of wild horses were replaced by the horses of the nomadic tribes, then – our ancestors appeared – the Cossacks. The horse is a true friend for them. Afterwards, the machinery came – steel horses, tractors and combines. But not them only. The land was bombed. The Nazi tanks were crawling across the steppe like giant black beetles. Entrenchments grassing in the steppe resemble scars after a severe illness.
    Steppe… Many poets and writers dedicated the lines to you for your freedom, for the wide expanse. Long live Steppe, although you shrink year by year. You pass away, yielding the way to fields, gardens, and orchards. And the childhood memories go away to the past along with you…
Translated By Victor Rоude.
Virginia Beach. USA.