Sometimes I feel like I live on a fault line about to open. Like I can physically feel every crack in the universe. Usually, it happens around full moon, in the spring, when the ice cracks, in the autumn with shedding of leaves and all the migrations, visible and otherwise. At every tipping point: light turning into darkness, darkness into light. Speaking of which, I hate the hour change.

I love people who stop to look at something. In Ukrainian, the verb look and the noun miracle have the same root – it is anything but coincidence. In my evening walk in sad November twilight I met a woman with an old German shepherd who stopped to watch a lonely goose flying over our heads with sad sad cries. Then I saw a young man, standing next to his bike looking at the trees wrapped in pink of the dying light, reflected on the surface of the water reservoir. Then I stopped myself, as a flock of geese – relatives? – was flying low under our heads. From that short distance I could hear not only their plaintive cries, but the whoosh-whoosh of their wings. The most beautiful sound.