Деревья
Pavel Andreivich Chekov loves trees.
Now, that may seem to be a silly observation; but, truly, this is something profound. It is as much a part of Pavel Andreivich as Mother Russia herself – or perhaps they are one and the same: The endless emerald cloak she wears has been her eternal adornment. Memories of the immortal forested shoulders of his homeland are a comfort to this child of the Rus, and he has shared countless stories with a trusted few in his tangled-tongue chattering way.
On the outskirts of Moscow, oaks – and birches – stand so thick that the noises of the city cannot be heard; and the loudest sound, when the animals sleep, is the clatter of falling leaves. In Khimki Forest, the Czars once rode to the hunt – and a young Pavel Chekov, driven by a mind so far-ranging that he could not find rest in the bright babble of student-filled school halls, sought peace in dappled shifting light and the silent, secret, motionless midst of tall, dark, slender sentinels.
And found it.
Now, on shoreleaves, when conditions are right, Chekov will find a tree that calls to him. He'll climb to its heart and sit surrounded by ancient gnarled limbs, to listen to its insistent whisper, its age-old murmur: The sough of wind in its leaves.
He'll blink in the stained-glass glow of breeze-bent foliage; peer through a web of broad-shouldered branches; look out across an endless verdant vista of colorful-capped comrades-at-heart - and be as snug and content as any small black-and-gold squirrel could ever hope to be.
No matter the stresses that have come before – the hours, the dangers, the losses or pain – Chekov will climb down from his arboreal nest renewed, refreshed, alive.