A fleeting Tolstoy-esque dream morphing into the foreboding of a pogrom.

Fresh, mildly damp autumn wind,
found my face to be but a slight nuisance.
Along a dirt road between the woods and the village brink,
barefoot - the loam was surprisingly warm and meek,
I half walked, half ran, wading through the slushy substance.
Fallen leaves clung to my ankles and feet.

Elated, I thought, “I’m at the pinnacle of my Russianness: 
to be more Russian one hardly ever achieves.”
On my left bristled the wall of pine and oak,
birch bespangled with stubborn yellow leaves,
remnants of autumn’s skilful handiwork,
offsetting the grim, moss-covered conifer trees.

To my right spread the village with its wooden façade;
its main street peeked through an alleyway.
I sensed something brewing down there:
stomping with heavy boots, swarming out of nowhere,
people started gathering. Suddenly a participant in a charade,

spotting over their heads dark banners 
I strained my eyes to read and saw myself recoil.
My Russianness first came to a halt, then took a steep fall,
morphing into a parabola, plummeting out of control,
levelling off along the axis of imaginary numbers.

06/20 , Madstack