about
close
archaic
Zhang Xiaofeng
Spring must be like this: from the foot of the castle peak, a handful of snow can't hold on, with a splash, the cold face turns into a painted face, and a song is sung from the clouds to the foothills, from the foothills to the low and desolate villages, to the hedgerows, to the yellow webbed ducklings and to the soft and soluble spring mud.
So charming, so sensitive, but so chaotic, a thunder can make dark clouds cry for no reason for a day, and a cuckoo crow can beat a city of azaleas. A gust of wind, every willow is singing white, empty, inexplicable, inaudible flying catkins. Every flying catkin is a semicolon of a willow tree. Anyway, spring is so unreasonable and illogical, but it can still make people calm.
Spring must be like this: withered stalks covered with dark leaves and flowers cling to an old plow, and houses of thousands of families in the north suffer from wind, snow and snow, holding an empty bird's nest. Then, suddenly, one day, peach blossoms captured the water profile of all the mountain villages, and willow trees controlled the royal ditch and the folk river head-spring is like Julian Waghann with a clear-cut flag, beautiful because of long-term pious expectations and prayers.
As for the name of spring, there must have been such a story: before the Book of Songs, before the history books and before Cang Xie wrote lyrics, a lamb suddenly felt juicy while eating grass, and a child suddenly felt soaring while flying a kite. A pair of legs suffering from rheumatic pain suddenly felt comfortable, and the blood of water was suddenly felt by Qian Qian's 10,000 hands washing sand by the stream ... When they were surprised to tell each other, they decided to pout their mouths into the shape of whistles and name this season-spring with a pleasant whisper.
Birds can start measuring the sky again. Some are responsible for measuring the blue of the sky, some are responsible for measuring the transparency of the sky, and some are responsible for measuring the height and depth of the sky with those wings. Not all birds are excellent mathematicians. They chattered and counted, and finally dared not publish the statistics.
As for all the flowers, they have been given to the butterfly to count. All the pistils made books for bees, and all the trees were ruined by the wind. Leave the wind to the old wind chimes in front of the eaves to remember and inquire one by one.
Spring must be like this, or, somewhere, it's still like this, right? Through the dark forest of chimneys, I want to visit the spring wandering in the distant years.