Xiaoman

Quiet villages, people returning home, and continuous wheat waves.

Plumes of smoke keep drifting into the blue sky, civet cats open their sleepy eyes and tiptoe on tiles, yellow dogs wag their tails and look around the threshold, white geese stagger back one by one, and old cows are eating tender grass on the roadside with great interest ... On a quiet night in a small village, orange lights are on one by one. A corner of the light leaks into the depths of the wheat field, crickets sing by moonlight, crickets flap their wings, fireflies dance with the wind with lanterns, and birds stroll home leisurely ... they all live a quiet and peaceful life. Just like this dull summer, the air is filled with sweetness and purity, and there is too much fragrance. No matter what happens in the world, it is true inside and outside.

Small solar terms, waiting for the rain, waiting for the wind to blow the wheat.

Born in Shan Ye, he is ugly, lush, bitter and cold.

The grass is green. It dies in the scorching sun. The place where it wants to go is Wan Fang.

The wind blows the wheat waves, and the clothes will be full, and the ripe ones will not be hidden.

Bags of golden wheat, green wheat seedlings, benefited from the strong after the rain, just like the growth of a baby. Time is always in hindsight. I don't know whether the spring breeze is moist or Xia Feng is moist. Wheat became a wave. The eagle circled in the air, and the flustered hare ran into the wheat yellow. The cultivators always disappear in the depths of the wheat waves. We only look at them from a distance and always want to know what they are looking for. The wheat ears are vivid and swaying in the wind. The head is the call of cattle and sheep, and the head is the joy of crowing. Farmers' smiles are like wheat waves in the wind, looking forward to a sunny day and a starry sky at night. After a new reincarnation, the golden bag was replaced by a few small old wheat ear coins, which were happily wrapped in cloth bags and hidden in the wardrobe of the years. Old furniture carefully records the sound of light flow, and it is deeply branded with four vague words, which can only be seen by presbyopia, that is, "time passes."

The sea replaced the wheat sea, and the wasteland replaced the mulberry field. The future is not the future, distance is just another era.

Childhood can never go back, and farming is still a bit bleak. The wheat grains are drifting away in the depth of sight, and may have returned to the distant north. In the place where the lights are gone in the south, the barren fields are silent, and it seems that only weeds are missing and asking why they are far away. ...

Back and forth, back and forth. The wheat waves of life roll back and forth and get lost. Whose way is that, and who is reluctant to walk on the road?

Xiaoman, Xiaoman. Looking at Qian Shan, the hometown is deep in the wheat waves.

Text/Editor: Literary Fish