... From a distance, in the forest corridor, it seemed jolly and dapper, gleaming with an unusually pure and even yellowness. I went closer: it was an abandoned field, long-since unploughed and unsown, and now densely overgrown with some kind of low shrubby bushes. The air suddenly breathed with their pleasant bitter-flower aroma. "Why that's rocket cress," I remembered a once-read botanical atlas, "some kind of weed."

A fresh wind ran across the top of the living carpet, the whole field moved and began to flow back and forth in golden waves, which rolled up to the edge of the forest wall shaded in by the sun, forming a shocking contrast between dark green and bright yellow. "Like a precious goblet with a malachite rim," flickered the comparison.
A kite hovered high in the scorching heat of the June sky. The heat warned of a storm. Above the western part of horizon an enormous cloud was already hanging black and swollen with rain. And only in the zenith of the sky, did the uneven rapidly overlapping edges of clouds gleam, emitting an unbearable, blindingly molten-silver light. The wind was getting stronger, all the rocket cress flowers were jerking back and forth, as if in some exotic dance.

The unceasing noise of an unseen multitude of larks rang out vehemently. It was as if the flowers, the forest and this field in its isolation from human settlements were all singing before the storm. But here came warm grey clumps falling from somewhere in the sky and hung above the bushes of the golden cress. Several larks were winding their way just above the field, flitting from flower to flower and filling the periphery with incessant sawing sounds. Others, accelerating the flapping of their little wings, climbed vertically and hung about four or five metres above the ground and also noisily lauded life.

The pre-storm clouds mounted up across the whole sky, here and there of a bluish pink, as if heated from the inside, and I saw that there was just a small blue window left above the forest, from which the the sun's rays poured in a broad waterfall towards the earth, bathing the fragrant summer flowers with soft, warm light. A storm formed from the aspen down flying around silently raged in the strained, static-filled air. But somewhere thunder boomed dully, and the first swollen drops of rain noisily thrashed the gold of the cress field. At that moment, when the storm arrived, it suddenly seemed, that all living nature sighed freely in relief, that all the trees, plants, birds and beasts rejoiced in the rain's gleaming, enraged ribbens weaved from fat watery fibres.

Soaked to the skin, alone in the darkened and suddenly quietened field which seemed crushed by the elements, I also silently delighted with the intoxicating happiness of the person, who, might only get to see and feel the the splendid torments of nature once or, at a push, twice in a year.