A man in the twilight is planting a tree, looking for the horses of smiling Galina in the fog, stroking the dog, lying on the warm autumn ground, pulling black clay from the bottom of the river, eating hot white bread. And all this is permeated with the expectation of great love. The expectation is so quiet that sometimes it seems to Yura himself that he is "like a tree waiting for nothing or waiting, like a tree waiting winter."