Skaists rits.../ Beautiful morning...

Mans shis dienas labakais draugs - vietejais parks, ja vien darzs blakus Bratskovas muizai man atlauj sevi ta devet. Tur shorit pamodos. Meginot iedvest dzivibu pedeja laika sanikushaja kermeni, celu to augsha ta ap seshiem. Tad, pec tris minushu bezmerkigas lukoshanas miglas pilnaja rita, kada neizsakama speka vadita rausos kajas, keru kameru pie rokas un devos ara. Ha, skrieshanai, shkiet, biju un esmu vel par kuslu.

My best friend of this day - a local park, unless the garden next to the manorhouse of Bratskov allows me to call it so. This morning I woke up there. With trying to infuse life into my body, which recently has been to weak and lazy, I pulled it up at six. Then, after three minutes of useless stearing at the morning fog, an ineffable force made me to get ready, to take a camera at hand, and I went outside. Ha, for jogging, it seems, I was and I am still to lazy.

Un tur, sava darza, es tad ari attapos, ausis saka uztvert to tirgus traci kokos - ar mazputninu churkstiem, mezha balozhu dudam, bet parsvars shis vietas karaliem - kra-kra veidigajiem. Skaists rits - sedet skala klusuma un verot, ka no miglas saule celas ara. Gribetos jau ta muzigi, pamosties un speku dienai smelt no ta vienkarsha dabas ritejuma ritos, no zales svaiguma pec rasas lietus, no ta, kas tur- ara...

And there, in my garden, I started my morning and day for a real. My ears perceived the market uproar in trees - with small-bird's talks, wood pigeon bagpipes, but mostly, the sounds, performed by the kings of this place - kra-kra species. It was a beautiful morning - to sit into the noisy silence and to watch, how the sun rises from the fog. I would like to have such a mornings like this forever - to wake up and gain the strength for the rest of the day from the simple and natural passage of morning, from the freshness of the grass after the fog, from everything, what are there - outside... 

Man merkis tagad, sevi piecelt par kripatinu agrak, nokert bridi, kad lakstigalas mostas.

My aim now is to get up a bit earlier, to catch the moment when the nightingale wakes up.