The immense steppe, which has neither end nor edge, and above it a bottomless silvery-gray sky, as if hung with a light cloud of clouds. It is raining slightly. On the rutted road, drowning in the mud, the carts drag along slowly, appearing in dark mist in the dark silhouettes.
Their string, wriggling along the road, stretched across the steppe, emphasizing its wide sweep, and it seems that the path lying in front of the Chumaks is endless. The dreary howl of a dog, bursting into the sleepy numbness of the steppe, intensifies that yearning and despair, with which the picture is filled to its fullest.
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