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Paints of summer (Сочинения ЕГЭ английский язык)

I do not really like to be in the summer in the city. Hot asphalt streets, stuffy yards of high-rise buildings, people always hurrying somewhere - all this makes you want to run away. Therefore, at least a month of the longest in the year vacation I spend in nature, in the countryside.

Usually in the morning on school days I can not be lifted from bed. But on vacation in the village, I often wake up at dawn to run through the dew and meet the sun rising from behind the forest. Nature awakens. The morning birds sing in the garden, and the night mist slowly recedes and hides over the ravines from the first rays of dawn. Now is the time to go to the forest for blueberries.

Blueberries are delicate.

That's what my grandmother says. This berry should be collected only by hand, without any "combines" and other devices. And then for the next year at the same place the harvest will be better than before. This is a simple rule we always observe, and the forest seems to thank us - after all, from our reconnoitred blueberries we never return empty-handed.

I love the summer thunderstorm. When, after a hot day, the horizon suddenly turns black and flashes with flashes of lightning. When a cool wind swings the trees and brings down the first thunder. And then the first drops of the long-awaited rain fall on the dusty road. I like to listen to the thunder in the attic of an old grandmother's house. I love that the rain drumming on the tin roof, and from the thunder of thunder the earth trembled.

After the rain, the water in the lake becomes warm, like fresh milk. We have a big lake, but it is very near the village. This is a favorite fishing place for almost all village boys. But I do not really like fishing, but come here to swim. I'm swimming pretty well, it's true, I can not swim to the other shore until I risk it. There's a kilometer, not less.

Meadows next to the lake in the spring are flooded with melt water. And in the summer there is grass to the waist. In this grass it's so cool to lie on a windy day, listen to her rustle and watch the clouds fly across the sky. And sometimes it seems that I'm swimming past the clouds on a huge ship under green grass sails.

And then the evening comes, and I return to my grandmother's house - she probably already prepared something special for dinner. The windows to the garden are wide open. In the sky the first stars are lit, the shepherds are driven from the pastures of cows, and somewhere in the thick foliage, the nightingale winds its evening song. No, I will not trade such vacations for the city's stone jungle.

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