The Legend of the Flying Sands

One autumn morning, I happened to witness a scene like this. Above the river, bluish mist curled in soft waves. The reeds drowsed quietly by the water. A fish flicked its tail — and silence returned. Birds rose from the river floodplains into the sky, circled once or twice, then climbed higher. Forming a triangle, they flew farther and farther, toward the horizon… And I recalled a legend from long, long ago.

In those distant times, these lands were ruled by merciless dry winds — they buried everything under hot sands, swept away even the thinnest layers of fertile soil, and dried out the last drops of life-giving moisture. Migratory birds never stopped here. Exhausted, barely alive, they kept flying on, and many perished from fatigue. There was no rest beneath the scorching sun or in the harsh, burning winds.

But one spring, a miracle happened. Each migrating bird carried in its beak a seed, a twig, a tiny sprout. They left them along the slopes of the Inhulets River. And soon, a young forest rose by the riverbank. It halted the drifting sands. From fallen leaves, a thin layer of soil began to form. The first tender shoots of green grass appeared…

Only a few centuries have passed, and these places are unrecognizable. The forest now rings with children’s laughter. Here stands the children’s recreation camp “Romashka.” An oak grows there — one that has long celebrated its 200th anniversary. From the past remains only the name of the forest — “The Flying Sands.” And on the green hills near the Inhulets River, migratory birds always find a place to rest.

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