Gagarin in the Valley

Up the Barskoon valley, among conifers and the first road ice of the season, a boulder carries Gagarin's face in gold on a red crescent, and fresh flowers appear at its base with quiet regularity nobody administrates. He rested at the lake after the flight; the valley has treated him as a local ever since. Space has an embassy here, and it is a rock.

I stood at the foot in my winter coat and looked up for a long time. The relief is naive in style and completely effective, which is a combination I keep meeting in Soviet memorials and keep being moved by against my critical training. The first man in orbit, rendered by mountain masons, guarded by spruce.

Snow started as I walked back, unhurried flakes with no agenda. The valley kept its silence. Somewhere overhead, statistically, the station crossed.