May 2007. Wind through the Chinese elm, gray skies. Rain last night--a fine mist everywhere equal. Campus lot, after midnight, empty, forlorn. At home: Natasha outside, a bundle of wet--I open the back door and she dashes in. Dashing in. Budyonny and the Konarmiya. Makhno there in the helmet--Central Asia meets the steppe--a figure from dreams--or nightmares. Under the banner of plunder, wave after wave, traversing black earth. Astrakhan, the Urals, Saratov. Up the Volga to Kazan--where an ancient people man the walls, arrows in defense, siege...
Da zdrastvuye...
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