“Rare in the ash dawn sky, stars were erased. The wind pulled from under the clouds. A fog went over the Don on the hips and, planning along the slopes of the Cretaceous Mountain, crawled into Yara with a gray, headless viper. Sands, yendovs, reed -shaped impassable, forest in dew - blazed with an ejected cold glow. Behind the line, not going in, the sun was languishing. ” (Mikhail Sholokhov. "Quiet Don.") And what are you, whitish, in such an instruction? - was heard invisible from the canopy.