... At a distance, from within the forest, it seemed joyful and elegant, shining with unusual purity and an even yellowness. I walked a little closer: it was an abandoned field which had been neither ploughed nor sown for a long time, and now it was densely overgrown with some kind of low plants. They instantly gave out a pleasant, but slightly bitter floral scent. “Yes, that is winter-cress,” I recalled from some botanical atlas I had once read. “It’s a kind of weed…”

A fresh breeze blew over this living carpet, and the whole field began to play, rippling with golden waves, and rolling as far as the forest walls where the shade from the sun produced a startling contrast between the dark green and the bright yellow. A comparison occurred to me: “It is like a precious cup mounted on a malachite base.”
A kite soared high up in the sultry June sky. The heat heralded a storm. Above the western part of the horizon, a huge, dark cloud was already looming, swollen with rain. Only the uneven, rapidly shifting edges on the very tops of these clouds glared brightly with a blinding light, like molten silver. The wind grew stronger and the whole field of winter-cress swayed rapidly, as if performing some exotic dance.

A multitude of invisible skylarks called out passionately and unceasingly. It seemed as though the flowers, the forest and this meadow, far from human habitation, were all singing before the storm. But then, warm, grey lumps fell from the sky and hovered over the golden winter-cress. A few skylarks floated over the meadow itself, flitting from flower to flower, and nagging incessantly everywhere they went. Others, often flapping their wings, rose up vertically and hovered four or five metres above the ground, from where they sang the praises of life just as loudly as ever.

The ominous clouds towered over the whole sky. They were bluish pink in some places, as if scorching hot on the inside, and I noticed that only a tiny window of blue remained over the forest, out of which rays of sunshine poured straight down to earth like a large waterfall, flooding the fragrant summer blossoms with their soft, warm light. Meanwhile, in the tense, electrified air, a silent storm raged as downy aspen fluff flew all around. Then a deafening clap of thunder came from somewhere, and the first drops of rain lashed down onto the golden winter-cress flowers. At that very moment when the downpour began, it suddenly seemed as if every living thing was now freely sighing with relief, and all trees, plants, birds and animals were cheered by the sparkling, glimmering rain woven out of thick streams of water.

Drenched to the skin, and alone in the hazy and instantly quiet meadow now seemingly subdued by the elements, I silently enjoyed the intoxicating pleasure of a person who is afforded the opportunity but once or twice a year to see and feel in solitude this beautiful confusion in nature.

... When I first glimpsed it from a distance through a gap between the trees, it struck me as a jolly and ceremonial site, and its yellow glow seemed exceptionally pure and even. I went up to take a closer look: it was an overgrown field which had lain untouched for many years and was now covered by a dense layer of low shrubs of some sort. I suddenly caught their scent in the air - a pleasant, flowery aroma with a faint bitterness to it. “That must be yellow rocketcress,” I thought, recalling an item I had once read in my botanical encyclopedia, “a weed, or something like one...”

A fresh breeze ruffled this living carpet, and the entire field was bathed in waves of gold which rippled over it playfully and rolled all the way over to the walls of the forest, which the sun had left in the shade, creating a striking contrast between the dark green of the forest and the bright yellow of the field. “Like a golden chalice encased in malachite,” I mused.
High above me a kite soared through the sultry June sky. I sensed from the intense heat that a storm was coming. A vast dark cloud, packed full of rain, had already appeared on the western part of the horizon. Only in the highest part of the sky did the edges of the clouds sparkle with a blinding gleam, like melted silver, as they swiftly changed places and moved past one another, emitting an unbearably bright light. The wind picked up, and the yellow rocketcress flowers began to gyrate in the breeze as if performing some sort of exotic dance.

The song of a bevy of larks rang out from somewhere out of sight, passionate and unrelenting. It was as though the flowers and the woods themselves, and this field, so far removed from all human habitation, had joined together in song during this moment of calm before the storm. Some grey raindrops began to fall from the sky and get caught in the thickets of the gilded yellow rocketcress. Some of the larks glided over the field itself, fluttering from flower to flower and filling the area with an incessant milling sound. Others, flapping their wings every few seconds, flew straight up into the air and hovered four or five metres above the ground, glorifying life with their cacophanous song.

The gathering storm filled the sky with towering clouds, bluish-pink in places as if aglow on the inside, and I saw that there was now no more than a small window of bluish sky above the woods, from which rays of sunshine were cascading towards the earth like a broad, straight waterfall, bathing the fragrant flowers in the soft, warm light of summer. And in the tense, electrified air, the down from the aspen trees floated in circles, forming a snowstorm which raged silently. Then there was a deafening clap of thunder, and the first big drops of rain came lashing down on the golden flowers of the rocketcress. At the instant when the rainstorm arrived it suddenly seemed as if nature, teeming with life, was heaving an almighty sigh of relief and gladness, and that all of the flora and fauna were filled with joy by this glistening, rousing rainfall as it beat down on them in thick jets.

Wet through and alone in this misty field, which had suddenly fallen silent as if overwhelmed by the elements, I too exalted in the intoxicating bliss felt by someone who is blessed with the opportunity, perhaps twice a year, if that, to observe and experience nature in this beautiful state of excited arousal.

…It sprung up at the end of a forest passage, and from a distance it looked cheerful and festive, luminous with its incredibly pure and even yellowness. I came closer: it was an abandoned field, long untilled and unsown, now overgrown with some short, bushy plants. Suddenly they gave out a breath of pleasing, bitter-flowery aroma. “Why, it’s rocket cress “– I remembered a botany atlas read long ago – “a kind of weed…”
A fresh wind ran over the living carpet; the entire field stirred in iridescent golden waves reaching to the shady wall of the forest in a striking contrast of bright yellow and dark green, “like a priceless bowl set in malachite” – was the simile that crossed my mind.
High in the hot June sky a black kite was gliding. The heat presaged a storm. Over the western horizon a huge cloud was hanging darkly, heavy with rain. And only overhead the jagged, quickly shifting, cloud rims, blindingly bright as if made of molten silver, radiated an unbearable light. The wind grew stronger, the rocket cress inflorescences were swinging fast as if performing some exotic dance.
A passionate and unending jingle was coming from the host of invisible larks. It seemed that in anticipation of the storm everything was singing - the flowers, the forest and this field far removed from any human settlement. But look – warm gray nuggets dove from the sky and froze, suspended over the brushes of golden rocket cress; some larks made rounds over the field, from flower to flower, filling the area with a non-stop peeping; others, quickly fluttering their little wings, would soar vertically then hang some four-five yards over the ground, loudly singing their paeans to life.
The pre-storm clouds piled up over the entire sky, blue-pinkish in spots, as if fired from inside; now I saw that only a rather small bluish window remained over the forest, streaming a wide, straight cascade of sunbeams to the ground and swamping the whole of summer’s aromatic bloom in a soft warm light. Meanwhile, snow-like aspen dawn was silently whirling through the electrified air. Then the deafening thunder exploded from some unknown spot and the first few large raindrops loudly whipped the golden rocket cress blossoms. As the averse broke out it looked instantly as if the whole of living nature, liberated, sighed with relief, as all the trees, birds and animals reveled in this rain - sparkling, chaotic, spun from thick jets of water.
Wet to the bone, alone in the midst of a misty field that suddenly fell silent as if weighed down by the elements, I, too, quietly basked in the enchanting bliss of a being who just once, or at most twice a year gets to witness and experience nature’s splendid upheaval.

... Afar in the forest passage it appeared blithe and elegant, shining with uncommonly clean and solid yellow. I came closer: it was an abandoned field, not ploughed or sown for long, and now thickly grown with some low bush plants. A wonderful bitter and flowery aroma suddenly wafted from them. ‘Why, this is winter cress,’ I remembered the botanical atlas I had read once, ‘sort of a weed...’

A breath of fresh air ran over the live carpet, and the whole field began to sparkle and gleam with gold waves, which reached the shaded edge of the forest, making a stunning contrast between the dark green and bright yellow. ‘Like a precious bowl in a malachite frame.' a comparison flashed through my mind.
High in the sweltering sky a kite was soaring. The heat promised a thunderstorm. A huge dark rain-swollen storm cloud was already looming over the western part of the horizon. And only in the zenith, the broken and fast-moving edges of the clouds were fiercely blazing with melted silver, casting blinding light. The wind was becoming stiffer, and all winter cress heads were violently rocking, as if performing some exotic dance.

Passionately and continuously a great many skylarks were ringing, invisible to the eye. Singing, as if before a thunderstorm, were both the flowers, and the forest, and this field, remote from human settlements. Suddenly, warm grey blobs fell from somewhere above and hovered over the small bushes of golden winter cress. Some of the larks were winding close above the field, flitting from one flower to another and filling the surroundings with incessant sound of sawing. Other of them, fluttering their wings, rose vertically and hovered about fifteen feet above the ground, loudly praising the life.

Thunder clouds were bulking up across the entire sky, bluish pink here and there, as if burning hot from the inside, and I saw that above the forest only a narrow light-blue window was left, out of which a waterfall of beams was breaking through to the ground, flooding all fragrant blooming of summer with mellow light. Meanwhile, a blizzard of the flying aspen fluff was silently raging in the tense air, thick with electricity. Suddenly, deafening thunder growled, and first sizeable drops of rain boisterously lashed at the gold of the winter cress flowers. The moment the shower arrived, it appeared all of a sudden, that the entire wildlife breathed a sigh of liberty and relief; that all trees, plants, birds and beasts rejoiced at the sparkling and flaming rain, woven from thick water jets.

Soaked to the skin, alone amidst the fogged and suddenly quietened field, as if it were held down by the elements, I was likewise relishing the intoxicating glee of a man who is given, once or twice a year at most, the chance to see and feel the delightful perturbation of nature.

... From far away in the forest path it seemed cheerful and elegant, shining with an unusually pure and even yellowness. I walked up to get a closer look: it was an abandoned field which had not been plowed or sowed for a long time and was now thickly overgrown with some sort of low-growing small bushes. The bushes suddenly released a pleasant, somewhat bitter floral aroma. “Yes, this is winter cress,” I remembered a botanical atlas that I had read some time ago, “it’s some kind of a weed...”

A fresh breeze skimmed over the living carpet; the whole field started to sparkle and became iridescent with golden waves which rolled up to the edge of the forest, shaded from the sun, forming a striking contrast between dark green and bright yellow. “Like a precious chalice in a malachite frame,” the comparison flashed through my mind.
A kite was hovering high in the scorching June sky. The heat foretold a thunderstorm. An enormous storm cloud was already darkening and swelling with rain over the western horizon. It was only at the zenith that uneven, quickly shifting edges of clouds glittered radiantly with melted silver, eroding the unbearable sunlight. The wind grew stronger; all the clusters of blossoms shook themselves briskly, as if performing an exotic dance.

A bevy of invisible larks struck up a passionate, never-ending song. It was as if the flowers, the forest, and this remote field sang before the storm. But here, warm grey droplets fell from somewhere in the sky and hung over bushes of golden-hued winter cress. Some larks hovered over the field itself, flitting from flower to flower and filling the forest edge with the sound of incessant pecking. Others, often fluttering their little wings, ascended vertically and hung at about four to five metres above the earth and also loudly glorified life with their song.

Before the storm, the clouds stacked up across the whole sky; in various places they were pink tinged with dark blue, as if lit from within. I saw how above the forest there remained just a small, light blue window from which rays broke through to the earth in a direct, wide waterfall, flooding all of the fragrant blossoms of summer with a warm, soft light. In the strained, electrified air, a snowstorm of aspen down, flying in circles, silently raged. But somewhere, deafening thunder struck and the first large raindrops noisily thrashed the golden winter cress. At the moment when the downpour came, it suddenly seemed that all living nature breathed freely and more easily; all the trees, plants, birds and beasts rejoiced in the sparkling, rousing rain, woven from heavy streams of water.

Wet to the bone, alone in a misty field that had suddenly gone quiet, as if weighed down by the elements, I also silently delighted in the blissful happiness of a person who is given the chance to see and feel this wonderful commotion in nature twice a year at most.

... 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.

From afar, past a wooded path, it appeared gay and bright, sparkling with unbelievably pure and even goldness. I came up closer – it was an abandoned field, long unmowed and unsowed, and now thickly overgrown with some shrubbery. A whiff of pungent flowery scent rose above. I remembered a botanical atlas that I read through once: “Oh, it’s charlock, kind of a weed.”

Fresh wind ran over the live carpet and the whole field played and sparkled with golden waves that reached the wall of woods darkened by the sun and formed an amazing contrast of dark green and bright yellow. “Just like a precious bowl clad in malachite,” a thought went through my mind.

A kite glided in the hot June sky. Heat heralded a storm. A huge dark cloud swollen with coming rain was already hovering above the western part of the horizon. In zenith only, fast moving uneven cloud edges were blinding with melted silver releasing unbearable light. The wind grew stronger and charlock blossoms were swaying fast in some exotic dance.

A multitude of invisible skylarks were singing, incessantly and passionately. It seemed as if the flowers, the woods, and the field, so far from any human settlements, were signing before the storm. Now warm grey balls fell from the sky and hovered above the golden charlock shrubs. Some skylarks circled close to the field, fluttered from flower to flower, and filled the air with incessant singing. Some, rapidly flapping their wings and praising life, rose vertically and hung within four to five meters above the ground.

Stormy clouds were heaping all over the sky, bluish-pink in some places, as if heated from within, and I saw only one small bluish window left above the woods, from which the sunrays poured straight onto the earth and covered fragrant summer blooms with soft light. Cotton balls from aspens silently danced in tense with electricity air. Now thunder was heard somewhere and first large drops of rain loudly hit the gold of charlock flowers. As the shower came down, the whole nature seemed to breathe freely and easily, as if all the trees, plants, birds, and animals rejoiced in sparkling rain, solid as if woven from thick watery threads.

Soaked through and alone in the midst of foggy and suddenly silent, as if subdued by nature, field, I quietly enjoyed the happiness of a man who gets to witness such amazing natural commotion just once or may be twice a year at the most.

… From far off, in a wooded alley, it came into view: pleasant to behold, neat, radiant with a yellow hue that was uncommonly pure and even. I drew nearer: it was a long-neglected field, untilled and unsown, and now densely overgrown with low scrub. A pleasant scent blew off it suddenly, at once both bitter and floral. ‘Why, it’s bittercress,’ - I recalled some botanical atlas I’d read once - ‘it’s a kind of weed.’

A freshening breeze stole through the carpet of scrub; the whole field began to shimmer in golden waves that rolled up to the sunless walls of the wood. The dark-green and bright-yellow created an astonishing contrast, fleetingly akin to some precious chalice with a malachite rim.

A kite was soaring high in the sultry June sky. The heat presaged a thunderstorm; a huge storm cloud, swollen with rain, was already darkening the western horizon. It was only overhead that scrappy, rapidly-shifting cloud edges still sparkled blindingly with the unbearable light of molten silver. The wind was strengthening and the flowering bittercress was swaying to and fro, as if performing some exotic dance.

The ringing calls of unseen flocks of larks sounded ardent and unceasing. It seemed as if the flowers, the wood, and this remote field itself were all singing to the coming storm. And now these warm, grey little avian masses fell from somewhere in the sky and hung in the air above the bushes of golden bittercress. Some of the larks circled over the field itself, flitting from flower to flower and filling the surrounding air with a relentless sawing. Others, their wings quivering in frequent bursts, climbed straight up to hang four or five metres or so above the ground, where they joined in with the noisy hymn to life.

The clouds ahead of the storm stood towering, stretched across the whole sky; they were bluish-pink in places, as if burning up from within. I saw that only a small window of sky-blue was left above the wood, from which beams of earth-bound light burst through, tumbling down in a wide cascade, bathing the fragrant summer florescence in a warm, soft light. In the charged, electrified air, a soundless blizzard of circling aspen fluff was raging. And now, somewhere, thunder clapped deafeningly and the first fat drops of rain noisily lashed the golden flowering bittercress. At the moment the downpour arrived, it seemed at once that the whole of nature, in all its vitality, breathed deeply and sighed in relief; it seemed that all the trees, plants, birds and beasts were rejoicing in the glistening, rousing shower, woven from thick streams of water.

Soaked to the skin, straining to see, standing alone in the middle of the field which was now suddenly enveloped in quiet and pounded, as it were, by the elements, I was also silently relishing the intoxicating happiness of someone to whom is granted the chance once, perhaps twice a year at most, to see and to feel the amazing confusion of nature.

... From afar, in a wooded passage, it seemed gay and ornate, shining with an uncommonly clean and even yellowness. I walked up closer: it was an abandoned field, long since un-plowed and un-planted, now thick with overgrowth of little plants and bushes. They suddenly gave off a pleasant bitterish, flower-like aroma. "Yeah, it's rocketcress, — I remembered the botanical atlas I'd read sometime, — something like a weed ... ".

A fresh breeze ran over the living carpet; golden waves spilled over and played on the whole field; they rolled all the way to the sun-shaded forest wall, forming an amazing contrast of dark green and bright yellow. "It's like a golden cup in a malachite setting" - the comparison flashed in my mind.
High in the scorching June sky a vulture soared. The heat promised a storm. Over the western part of the horizon a colossal storm cloud was already darkening, swelling with rain. And only at the zenith uneven, quickly changing edges of clouds dazzled blindingly with molten silver, giving off an unbearable light. The wind picked up and all the rocketcress florets quickly shook, as if doing some exotic dance.

A large number of unseen larks' eager, constant call was heard. It was as if the flowers, and the wood, and this field, far away from human habitation, were all singing to the thunder storm. Suddenly warm gray lumps fell from somewhere in the sky and hung over the golden rocketcress bushes. A few of the larks were hovering about the field itself, flitting from flower to flower, filling the outskirts with an incessant buzzing. Others, wings quickly quivering, flew up vertically and hovered four or five meters in the air, loudly extolling life as well.

The pre-storm clouds obscured the entire sky, blue-pink in some places as if sizzling hot inside, and I saw that only a small sky-blue window was left over the wood, out of which rays fell in a straight wide waterfall, showering the sweet-smelling summer blossoms with a soft warm light. A snowstorm silently raged of aspen fluff flying around in the high-pressure, electricity-filled air. And somewhere thunder struck deafeningly, and the first fat raindrops noisily thrashed the golden rocketcress flowers. At that moment, when the downpour began, suddenly it seemed that all living nature freely breathed a sigh of relief, that all the trees, plants, birds and beasts rejoiced in the sparkling, excited rain, interwoven with thick strings of water.

Soaked to the bone, alone in the field which had gone foggy and suddenly quiet, just as if it had been squished by the elements, I, just as quietly, reveled in the intoxicating happiness of someone who once, maybe twice a year gets to see and feel the incredibly beautiful agitation of nature.

… I noticed it from far off in the distance of the forest passageway. It appeared playful and ornate, uncannily gleaming with purity and smooth gold. I came closer: it was an abandoned field, long since plowed or sowed, now covered with thick short shrubs. Suddenly the shrubs gave off a whiff of a pleasant, bitterish flower scent. I remembered reading a botanical atlas long ago: “My, but it is bittercress, a kind of a weed…”

A gust of fresh wind ran over the flowery carpet. The whole field came alive and gleamed as the golden waves rolled down to the forest walls, shadowed by the sun, and formed a mesmerizing contrast of dark green and bright yellow. A comparison sprang to mind: “It’s like a precious bowl in a malachite setting.” A vulture hovered high in the sultry June sky. The heat heralded the coming of a storm. A huge cloud was already darkening and swelling up with rain over the western part of the horizon. At the summit of the clouds, their rugged shifting edges glared like melted silver and exuded an unbearable light. The wind was getting stronger and all the bittercress flower heads were sharply swinging back and worth as if performing some exotic dance.

A multitude of larks was ringing fervently and persistently, invisible to the eye. Far away from any human dwelling, it was as if the flowers, the forest, and this field were singing before the storm. Grey clumps fell from high up and hung above the bushes of golden bittercress. Several larks weaved their way around, staying close to the field, fluttering from one flower to the next, and filling the area with incessant chirping. Others soared up, quickly beating their wings, hovered four or five meters off the ground, and joined in the loud praising of life.

Stormy clouds occupied the entire sky, in some places bluish pink, as if scorching from the inside. I saw only a small window of light blue left above the forest. It cascaded down to the ground in a wide waterfall of light beams and cast a soft gleam over the summer fragrant blossoms. A whirlwind of aspen fluff was soundlessly raging in the tense electrified air. Then a deafening thunder blast came, and the first large drops of rain noisily hit the golden bittercress flowers. When the rain poured down it appeared as if everything breathed a deep sigh of relief. Trees, plants, birds, and animals all welcomed the sudden sparkling rain woven from thick water streams.

The field was misty and suddenly quiet, as if pressured by the elements. Soaking wet and alone, I also silently took it all in with the delight of a man who gets to see and feel the wondrous agitation of nature only two or three times a year.

...Seen from a distance, through the trees, it looked cheerful and spruce, with an unusually pure and even yellow sheen. Moving closer, I saw that it was a neglected field, one which had not been ploughed or sown for a long time, and which was now thickly overgrown with some kind of small bushy plant. A pleasant, somewhat bitter and flowery scent suddenly wafted across. “Yes, winter-cress,” I thought, remembering an atlas of flora I had once read, “a bit like a weed...”

A fresh wind swept across this living carpet, and the whole field rejoiced, washed with golden waves which rolled to the shady edge of the forest, the dark green and bright yellow making a striking contrast. The comparison “like a precious chalice edged with malachite” flashed through my head.
A kite soared high above in the sultry June sky. The heat foretold a storm. Above the horizon, in the west, an enormous black cloud was already forming, bulging with rain. Only directly overhead did the rough, rapidly shifting edges of the clouds dazzle with molten silver, radiating a blinding light. The wind rose and all the winter-cress blossoms swayed rapidly back and forth as if in some kind of exotic dance.

A multitude of larks was twittering away excitedly somewhere, hidden from view, and it seemed to be the flowers, the forest and this field in the middle of nowhere that were singing ahead of the storm. But then, out of the blue, little warm, grey bundles appeared and flittered above the golden winter-cress bushes. Some of the larks circled above the field, darting from flower to flower and filling the air with their incessant fussing. Others, flapping their wings again and again, flew upwards and hovered four or five metres above the ground singing life’s praises in as just as noisy a manner.

The storm clouds, bluish-pink in places as if on fire inside, were piling up in the sky and I saw that only a small gap of blue remained above the forest. From here, the rays of the sun came bursting forth onto the earth in a direct, broad waterfall, bathing all the sweet summer blossoms in a soft, warm light, while in the strained, charged air a blizzard of aspen fluff silently raged. Then all at once there was a deafening crash of thunder and the first heavy drops of rain came clattering down onto the gold of the winter-cress blossoms. The second the heavens opened it suddenly seemed that the whole of living nature breathed a great sigh of relief, and all the trees, plants, birds and animals were delighting in the glistening, eager rain woven from thick jets of water.

Soaked to the skin, alone in the middle of the darkened field, now suddenly silent as if constrained by the elements, I just as silently basked in the intoxicating pleasure a person feels when once a year, or at best twice, they have the chance to see and experience the wonderful turbulence of nature.

... Out of the distance, in the forest corridor, it seemed joyful and elegant, shining with an extraordinarily clean and even yellowness. I came closer: It was an abandoned field, long lain fallow, now thickly overgrown with some kind of low-growing plants and shrubbery. A pleasant, bittersweet floral aroma suddenly wafted from them. "Yes, this is winter cress," I said, remembering a botanical atlas I read once, "something like a weed..."

A fresh wind swept over the living carpet, animating the entire field in playfully shimmering golden waves that sank unto the sun-dappled forest wall, forming a striking contrast of dark green and bright yellow. "Something like a precious chalice, framed in malachite," flashed the comparison through my thoughts.
A kite hovered high above in the sultry June sky. The heat boded thunder. The western end of the horizon already darkened with enormous clouds, swollen with rain. And only the zenith of the uneven, swift-moving edges of the clouds glittered with a molten silver, exuding a glaring, unbearable light. The wind intensified, all of the winter cress blossoms waving in the breeze, as if performing some kind of exotic dance.

A multitude of unseen larks called out incessant passion, - as if the flowers, the forest, and this field, far from any human settlements, all sang before the storm. Now warm, gray lumps fell from somewhere out of the sky and hovered over the golden winter cress bushes. Some of the larks larks swooped over the field, flitting from flower to flower and filling its borders with an incessant sawing. Others fluttered their wings, rising upwards and swooping four to five meters over the ground, praising life just as noisily.

Ominous clouds piled up throughout the sky, blue-pink in some spots, as if glowing from within, and I saw only a small bluish window left over the forest, from which a wide, straight waterfall of light-rays broke through to ground, pouring a soft, warm light over all of the fragrant blossoms. And a blizzard of flying aspen fluff swirled silently in the thick, electrically charged air. Then a deafening clap of thunder struck, and the first large drops of water noisily whipped across the golden winter cress blossoms. At that moment when the downpour arrived, it seemed as though all of living nature breathed a sigh of relief, that all the trees, plants, birds, and wild animals rejoiced in the sudden rain woven from thick streams of glistening water.

Soaked to the skin, alone on the hazy and suddenly quieted field, as if crushed by the elements, I also silently enjoyed the intoxicating joy of a person to whom twice a year it was given to see and experience the gorgeous tumult of nature.

...It appeared in the distance, in a forest alley, joyful and elegant, glistening with clean and silken yellowness. I approached: it was an old field, the soil long unturned and unsown, which now was thickly overgrown with small shrub-like plants. A pleasant bitter-floral scent suddenly emanated from them. It must be bittercress, I thought as I remembered having read a botanical atlas at some point, sort of weed...

Fresh wind blew over the living carpet and the whole field came alive sparkling and gleaming with golden waves, which reached the shadowed wall of the forest, creating a striking contrast of dark green and bright yellow. At once in my mind's eye I could see a vase carved out of precious malachite.
A vulture was hovering high up in the sweltering June sky. Heat signified a storm. A huge cloud, swelling with rain, had already darkened the west side of the horizon. But overhead, ragged, quickly floating edges of clouds glared like molten silver, emitting an overpowering light. The wind was blowing harder, the bittercress blossoms stirring fast, as if performing some kind of exotic dance.

A great number of larks, invisible to the eye, sang violently and persistently. It was as if everything was engaged in song before the storm: the flowers, the forest, and this isolated field. Then grey warm little bundles fell out of some place in the sky and remained hovering above the golden bittercress bushes. Some larks flocked about the field itself, fluttering from flower to flower and filling the place with incessant tinkling. Others, with rapid wings fluttering, rose up vertically and hovered four or five meters above the ground, still producing loud hymns to life.

Storm clouds were crowding the sky, some bluish-pink, as if glowing from inside, and above the forest I saw the only remaining light blue gap, from which straight and wide as a waterfall sun rays streamed towards the earth, pouring warm gentle light upon every fragrant summer flower. A silent snowstorm of flying aspen wool raged in the tense electrified sky. Then from somewhere came a deafening sound of thunder and the first large rain drops loudly lashed the gold of bittercress flowers. At that moment, when the downpour started, it suddenly seemed to me that all living nature breathed a sigh of relief and freedom. It appeared that all trees, plants, birds and animals joyfully embraced the rain - sparkling, startling, weaved from thick water jets downpour.

The field was suddenly quiet and misty, as if suffocated by the elements. Soaked to the bone, I was silently enjoying the intoxicating happiness of a human who only once or twice a year is granted a privilege to see and experience nature's wonderful flurry.

From afar, as I stood on the forest path, it appeared to be cheerful and well appointed, shining with an unusually pure and even yellow. I approached a bit closer: It was an abandoned field, untilled and unsown for a long time, and now thickly overgrown with some sort of low shrubby little plants. A pleasant and somewhat bitter flower aroma suddenly wafted over from them. “That is surely rape” (I recalled a botanical guidebook that I’d once read)—“something weedy.”

A fresh breeze came up over the living carpet and the whole field started to dance and play in golden waves, which rolled over to the forest’s wall shaded from the sun, forming a surprising contrast of dark golden and bright yellow. “Like a precious cup in a malachite frame,” the comparison suddenly came to me.

High in the sultry June sky a kite soared. The heat presaged a thunderstorm. The western horizon was already darkened by an enormous storm cloud, swelling with rain. And only directly overhead, uneven, rapidly intermingling edges of clouds sparkled dazzlingly with molten silver, giving off an unbearable light. The wind picked up and all of the rape blossoms jumped about wildly as if performing some exotic dance.

A multitude of larks, invisible to the eye, passionately and ceaselessly sang out. The flowers and the forest and that field so far from any human settlement performed as if in presentation before the storm. Then warm, gray globs were falling from somewhere in the sky and splattering over the golden rape bushes. Some of the larks were circling over the field itself, fluttering from blossom to blossom and filling the surroundings with incessant screeching. Others, often with quivering wings, rose vertically and swooped some four or five meters above the ground and also loudly praised life.

The forerunner storm clouds towered through the whole sky, here and there bluish-pink, as if heated from inside, and I saw that only a smallish blue window remained, from which a straight, broad waterfall of light broke through, bathing the entire field of fragrant summer blossoms with a warm, soft light. In the tense, electrically charged air a blizzard of flying aspen down soundlessly swarmed around. A clap of thunder roared deafeningly, and the first big drops of rain noisily whipped the golden rape blossoms. At that moment when the downpour came, it suddenly seemed that all of living nature heaved a great sigh of relief, that all the trees, plants, birds, and animals were rejoicing in the sparkling, all-encompassing, thick watery braids of rain.

Soaked to the skin, at one with the dimmed and suddenly silenced field literally trampled by the storm, I too silently delighted in the intoxicating good fortune of someone to whom it has been given once or twice a year to see and experience such excellent commotion in nature.

From a distance, in the forest corridor, there was something fun and neat in appearance, glowing with unusually clear and even yellowishness. As I came closer, it turned out to be a deserted field, long unplowed and unsown, and now sadly overgrown by some shrubs. Pleasant, bitter-floral aroma suddenly wafted from the shrubs. “This is colza.” - I remember reading about it in a botanical atlas - “It is a plant similar to weed."

Fresh breeze ran over the living carpet, causing the entire field to come alive and fill itself with golden waves. The waves reached the shaded walls of the forest forming an amazing contrast of dark green and bright orange colors. An analogy sprang in my mind - “This looks like a precious malachite-lined bowl."

High in the sultry June skies, a kite was soaring. The heat had been foretelling a storm. Huge thunderclouds, pregnant with rain, had already darkened the western parts of the horizon. Only at the zenith, the uneven, swiftly changing cloud linings shone blindingly as if they were made of molten silver, glowing with unbearable brightness. The wind was picking up and the colza, in all its colors, was rapidly swinging, as if performing some exotic dance.

There was a continuous passionate ringing emitted by invisible larks. It was as if the flowers, the forest, and this remote field were chanting before the storm. But then, warm gray lumps fell from somewhere in the sky and hovered over the golden colza shrubs. Some of the larks were circling low over the field, hopping from flower to flower, and filling the area with an incessant buzz. Others fluttered their wings faster, climbed vertically, and hovered four to five yards over the ground, loudly celebrated life.

Thunderclouds towered all over the sky, bluish-pinkish at places, as if glowing hot on the inside, and I saw that only a small bluish opening through the clouds was left over the forest. Through this opening, a wide waterfall of rays was making its way toward earth, soaking the fragrant summer bloom with warm soft light. A blizzard of airborne aspen fluff was silently raging inside the tense, electrified air. But suddenly, a deafening thunderbolt struck somewhere and the first large raindrops noisily slapped the gold of the colza blossoms. At the exact moment the downpour started, it suddenly seemed that all of living nature sighed in freedom and relief, and that all the trees, plants, birds, and wildlife rejoiced the glittering, total rain, woven from thick water jets.

Drenched to the skin, alone in the veiled and suddenly quieted, as if subdued by the elements, field, I, too, quietly enjoyed the intoxicating happiness of a person who is only allowed to see and feel such a wonderful turmoil of nature only once or twice per year at most.

From afar, in a strip of land amidst the forest, it appeared cheerful and elegant, shining with an uncommonly solid and even yellowness. I drew nearer: it was a neglected field, not ploughed and not sown for ages, and now it stood rank with low shrubs. They suddenly gave off a pleasant bitterish scent of flower. "It must be bittercress – I cast my mind back to a botanical atlas I had read formerly – something of a weed…"

As a breath of a fresh wind stirred an animate blanket, the entire field grew iridescent in goldish waves that reached a shaded sheet of forestry generating a fascinating contrast between dark-green and canary yellow. "Like a precious bowl set in malachite" – a comparison flashed across my mind. High up in a sultry air of June hovered a kite. Heat was a harbinger of thunderstorm. Swelling with rain was a colossal dark storm-cloud that had already gathered over the western part of the horizon. And it is only at the zenith that speedily moving irregular edges of clouds were dazzlingly shining with molten silver emitting a blinding light. The wind started to pick up, all inflorescences of bittercress quickly swayed as if performing an exotic dance.

A flock of invisible skylarks was warbling, passionately and incessantly. Accompanying this warbling was a pre-thunderstorm performance by a chorus made up of flowers, forest and the field remote from inhabited localities. Yet all of a sudden warm grey lumps fell from somewhere in the sky hanging over the bushes of goldish bittercress. Some skylarks hovered over the very field, fluttering from one flower to another and filling surroundings with unceasing twittering. Other skylarks frequently quivering ascended and hung over at the height of 4-5 metres above the ground and also loudly sang the praises of life.

Pre-storm clouds piled up all over the sky, here and there pinkish with a bluish tint, as though red-hot from within, and I noticed that only a small bluish window remained over the forest. It is through this window that light beams, like a direct wide waterfall, forced their way to the ground flooding all summer fragrant blossoming with gentle warm daylight. Yet in an electrified air a blizzard made up of aspen down flying around raged. And a huge peal of thunder crashed somewhere and the first heavy raindrops began to lash against the gold of bittercress flowers pattering on it. At that moment when downpour started it seemed that all the nature sighed with relief and freely, that all the trees, plants, birds and animals rejoiced at a sparkling alarmed rain woven of thick jets of water.

Drenched to the skin, alone amidst the hazy field that as if overwhelmed by the power of the nature had all of a sudden fallen silent, I also silently enjoyed what was going on around me, as a person filled with a sheer happiness, a person who is destined to see and feel once in a year or twice at most a beautiful excitement in the nature.

…From afar, in a forest vista, it seemed to be hilarious and dressy, sparkling with unbelievably even and clean yellowness. I came closer; it was an abandoned field, long unplowed and unsown, and now densely grown with some low bushy plants. They suddenly gave off a pleasant bitterish flowery scent. “Blimey, this is a wild rape,” I recalled once read botanical atlas, “some kind of weed...”

A fresh breeze ruffled the live carpet, and the entire field undulated with golden iridescent ripples that rolled forth to a sun-shaded forest mural forming a striking contrast of dark green and bright yellow. “Like a precious chalice in a malachite setting,” a simile flickered in my mind.
A kite soared in a scorching July sky. The heat presaged a thunderstorm. Over the west part of the horizon, there already was an ominously dark cloud swelling with rain. And only at the zenith, ragged and quickly shifting cloud edges were glittering with molten silver emitting unbearable light. The wind was picking up and the yellow rape clusters swung rapidly as if they had been performing some exotic dance.

Indiscernible for an eye, flocks of larks were clinking incessantly and passionately. Before the storm, it seemed that all the flowers, the forest and this whole field remote from human settlements chanted. Here fell the warm gray balls somewhere from high and flew close to the bushes of golden wild rape. Some of the larks just rushed over the field, sometimes flitting from flower to flower and filling the area with an unstoppable sawmill-like twitter. Others, briskly fluttering their little wings shot upwards and hovered above at around fifteen feet or so to extol life.

Pre-thunderstorm clouds piled up all around the sky, somewhere livid-purple, as if they had been heated from inside, and I saw that above the forest there was just a small blue window out of which in a magnificent broad cataract, the sun rays were thrusting down to the earth pouring with warm soft light over all the summer fragrant bloom. Yet, in the tense, filled with electricity air, a blizzard of aspen tufts raged inaudibly. Ultimately, a deafening clap of thunder exploded and first heavy raindrops loudly whipped the gold of the wild turnip flowers. At the very same time the torrents blustered, it felt for a moment that the whole nature gave out a sigh of relief, and all the trees, plants, birds, and animals rejoiced at this resplendent and agitated, woven of thick rain spurts pelting.

Soaked to the skin, alone, in the middle of a misty and suddenly mute field, I also silently enjoyed ravishing happiness of a man who only once or twice a year is given a chance to watch and feel this wonderful trepidation of nature.

... From a distance, through the passage in the forest, it looked cheerful and bright, radiating with unusually pure and even yellowness. On approaching, this is an abandoned field, having been neither ploughed nor sown for a long time, and now it is densely overgrown with some sort of low shrubs. Suddenly, the breeze brings over a pleasant bitterly floral aroma. "God, this is winter cress,” - I recall from reading a botanical album some time ago, – “some sort of weed..."

Fresh wind sweeps over the vivid carpet causing the entire field to move playfully with glistening waves rolling towards a wall of forest shaded from the sun, forming a fascinating contrast between dark green and bright yellow. "Like a bowl of gem stones with a malachite rim" – I suddenly thought.
A kite glides high in the sultry June sky. The heat promises a thunderstorm. Over the western side of the horizon, a huge cloud swollen with rain is already forming. At the zenith, the uneven and fast moving edges of the clouds dazzle with molten silver producing an unbearable brightness. The wind picks up and the carpet of winter cress bloom sways wildly as if the plants are performing an exotic dance.

A continuous trilling sound rises from many unseen larks singing passionately. It is as though the whole place - the flowers and the forest and the field, remote from all human habitat - is singing before the thunderstorm. All the sudden, warm grey shapes fall from the sky and hover over the golden-headed plants. Some of the larks hover above the field moving from one flower to another, filling this remote place with their constant song. Others, fluttering their wings rapidly, fly up and hover four or five meters off the ground loudly praising life.

Thunderclouds tower across the sky, some tinted blue-pink as if glowing from within. Over the forest, I notice a narrow window of the blueish sky remaining, from where a broad waterfall of sunlight breaks through and reaches down to the ground flooding the whole fragrant summer meadow with a warm gentle light whilst a blizzard of aspen fluff silently circles around in the heavy electrified air. Then a deafening thunderclap explodes followed by the first large raindrops nosily slashing at the golden bloom of the winter cress. As the downpour arrives, it suddenly feels as if all nature sighs, liberated and relieved, that all the trees, plants, birds and animals welcome the stirring rain falling in sparkling thick streams of water.

Soaking wet, I stand alone in a middle of the misty field that is suddenly silenced as if it is subdued by nature, also silently enjoying this ecstatic sense of happiness of a human being who, once or twice a year, is given the opportunity to see and feel this wonderful turmoil of nature.

... Seen from afar through the forest alley, it looked jolly and ordered, its uncannily clean and regular yellow shining brightly. I approached: this was a fallow field, long unworked and unplanted, and now covered in some low shrubbery. A gust suddenly brought its pleasant bittersweet fragrance to me. Yellow rocket, I recalled a long-forgotten botanical atlas: a herb of sorts.

The sweet wind swept the living carpet, making the entire field sway in golden waves that rolled to the sun-drenched forest in a striking contrast of dark green and bright yellow. A similarity to a gilt cup in a malachite bezel struck me.

A bird of prey soared high across the sweltering June sky. The heat foretold a storm. Indeed, a huge cloud darkened the western horizon, pregnant with rain. Atop the sky, patchy, rapidly morphing puffy clouds glistened with unbearably bright molten silver. The wind grew stronger, sending the yellow rocket gyrating in its exotic dance.

Exultations of invisible larks bleated keenly and endlessly. It was as if the flowers, the forest, and this field so remote from human habitation, all welcomed the storm with song. Largish grey shapes duly appeared from nowhere, hovering above the golden shrubbery. Some larks would swirl low over the field, fluttering from shrub to shrub as they filled the air with ceaseless bleats. Others, intermittently fluttering and gliding, would worship life loudly after suddenly shooting a dozen or more feet into the air.

The storm clouds soon plied their incandescent blue-pink bulk portentously across the sky, leaving a modest blue window over the forest, sunrays streaming though it in a straight cascade to irrigate the fragrant summer growth with soft light. Flurries of poplar fluff silently swirled across the electrically charged air. Then deafening thunder crackled somewhere, the first huge raindrops noisily splashing over the golden herbs. The instant the shower began all nature around seemed to heave a liberating sigh. Trees, plants, and beasts alike revelled in the myriad, close-knit, and thick jets of glistening rain.

Soaked to the bone and alone amid the suddenly empty steaming field that the elements seemed to have quite flattened, I too silently relished the intoxicating ecstasy of one granted but a single, or at most two, chances each year to witness and sense the wondrous switches of nature.