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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- Вино из одуванчиков
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- Стр. 263/264
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And
the
three
of
them
clanked
the
chains
shaken
down
from
the
porch
-
ceiling
eyelets
and
carried
the
swing
like
a
weathered
bier
around
to
the
garage
,
followed
by
a
blowing
of
the
first
dried
leaves
.
Inside
,
they
heard
Grandma
poking
up
a
fire
in
the
library
.
The
windows
shook
with
a
sudden
gust
of
wind
.
Douglas
,
spending
a
last
night
in
the
cupola
tower
above
Grandma
and
Grandpa
,
wrote
in
his
tablet
:
"
Everything
runs
backward
now
.
Like
matinee
films
sometimes
,
where
people
jump
out
of
water
onto
diving
boards
.
Come
September
you
push
down
the
windows
you
pushed
up
,
take
off
the
sneakers
you
put
on
,
pull
on
the
hard
shoes
you
threw
away
last
June
.
People
run
in
the
house
now
like
birds
jumping
back
inside
clocks
.
One
minute
,
porches
loaded
,
everyone
gabbing
thirty
to
a
dozen
.
Next
minute
,
doors
slam
,
talk
stops
,
and
leaves
fall
off
trees
like
crazy
.
"
He
looked
from
the
high
window
at
the
land
where
the
crickets
were
strewn
like
dried
figs
in
the
creek
beds
,
at
a
sky
where
birds
would
wheel
south
now
through
the
cry
of
autumn
loons
and
where
trees
would
go
up
in
a
great
fine
burning
of
color
on
the
steely
clouds
.
Way
out
in
the
country
tonight
he
could
smell
the
pumpkins
ripening
toward
the
knife
and
the
triangle
eye
and
the
singeing
candle
.
Here
in
town
the
first
few
scarves
of
smoke
unwound
from
chimneys
and
the
faint
faraway
quaking
of
iron
was
the
rush
of
black
hard
rivers
of
coal
down
chutes
,
building
high
dark
mounds
in
cellar
bins
.
But
it
was
late
and
getting
later
.
Douglas
in
the
high
cupola
above
the
town
,
moved
his
hand
.
"
Everyone
,
clothes
off
!
"
He
waited
.
The
wind
blew
,
icing
the
windowpane
.
"
Brush
teeth
.
"
