Russian autumn is an entire world, where morning fog stretches across the land like a soft blanket, covering the earth before the cold arrives. It smells of bonfires, where leaves quietly crackle, and this scent seems to call us back to childhood, to walks in the countryside, to the rustle of boots through damp grass. There is something familiar and unchangingly touching in it, like meeting an old friend.
The phenomenon of Russian autumn lies in its special calm, when even large cities seem to grow quieter. People begin to look more often at the sky, where cranes fly, and they involuntarily reflect on the eternal. Autumn gives a unique sense of depth: behind every misty morning hides a mystery, and behind every golden leaf lies the story of a summer lived.
In Russian autumn, one can always feel the strength of the land. It resounds in the crisp bark of birches, in the heavy branches of apple trees laden with their final fruits, in the clear waters of streams that mirror fiery crowns of trees. Perhaps that is why autumn here is not perceived as an ending, but as a wise reminder of the continuity of life.
Autumn in Russia knows how to warm. Not only with the light of the setting sun, but also with its atmosphere—when rain drizzles outside the window, while indoors the air is filled with the scent of pies and tea with honey. It seems to gather people closer together, encouraging gentle voices, attentive listening, and careful kindness.
And in this lies its greatest wonder: Russian autumn becomes a time when we learn not only to accept the changes of nature but also to find within ourselves the strength and desire to change along with it.