The Birch Forests

On the second morning, the train was already 400 kilometres east of Moscow.

Polly woke on the small table. The light was soft and grey. Galina, the older woman, was drinking tea from a glass with a metal holder.

"Birches," she said.

Outside, white trees were rushing past at sixty kilometres per hour. They went on and on. They filled the whole landscape.

This is the Russian birch belt. White birch grows in many cold places where other trees cannot.

The young man, Pavel, looked up. "You are the parrot," he said. He went back to his laptop.

Galina poured tea for Polly. It was amber. A slice of lemon floated on top. The samovar had been hot for twelve hours.

Polly drank a sip. It was hot and sweet.

"The longest part of this trip is the trees," Galina said. "You sit in a train for six days and look at trees. There is no end to them."

Forty percent of Russia is forest. Russia has twenty percent of all the trees in the world.

Polly drank again. Pavel typed. Galina read her book. Outside, the birches kept passing.