I grew up in Donbass (yes, the current war zone), where practically every year delivered to us four seasons, all just like in the natural history school book and the tale of “The Twelve Months”: spring starts with huge icicles in March, followed by a noisy-damp April, after which come the flowering white cherry trees of May; Summer starts with a cool June, leading into a warm July and hot August; September is balmy with the smell of smoke from burned leaves and the Indian summer; October – sad puddles and the first autumn frosts,; November – cold rains and the first attempts of snow; in December – a white surprise in the morning (that one single morning in the whole year when you want to go to school), in January – thaws and snowfalls, and in February – ferocious frosts, blizzards and giant ridge-roofed snowdrifts by the high-rise building walls. And in a little while the first spring streams start to purr under the friable march snow. And then all over again.

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