Leon Trotsky

(A deep Siberian night. Leon Trotsky, in a frozen overcoat, makes his way along a snow-covered path. The flashlight in his hand reveals only the streaming snow and pine trunks from the darkness. He is tired, muttering something about the contradictions of capitalism even here, in the taiga.)

Suddenly, the beam of a flashlight reveals a strange scene. Beneath a huge spruce tree, at the roots, sits a short figure in a dark cloak. And all around is silence, but not empty. On the branches, in the snow, on the figure's shoulders and head, crows perch motionless, like statues. Dozens of black birds, forming a single, breathing whole with the man.

Trotsky stops, his finger on the flashlight button. His analytical mind frantically searches for an explanation: shamanism? A hallucination from fatigue? A new form of counterrevolutionary agitation?

Trotsky (his voice hoarse but firm): Hey, comrade shaman! Are you rallying the local fauna against dialectical materialism?

The figure beneath the tree slowly turns its head. The crows don't take flight, merely turning their heads in unison to follow. A grin is visible in the lantern light.