Throwing back his shoulders, Kononov-Ivan stood by the window—then stooped, looked askance at the sunset, at the fields, at the musical instrument. He reflected a moment, then muttered absently:
"Aint wanted…. Go to Poriechie…." and the shutter dropped.
A sombre sky in autumnal lights—and the crossways…. Two wheel- tracks, ripple-grass, a foot-path. Sometimes the wanderer tired, that path seemed interminable, without beginning or ending. He turned aside, went astray, returned on his tracks—evermore to the thickets, forests, marshes….
End of Project Gutenberg's Tales of the Wilderness, by Boris Pilniak