Zhang Xiaofeng's "Nostalgic Spring"
Spring must have been like this. From the green mountain tops, a handful of snow could no longer hold it, and with a puff, the cold face fell. Smiling into flowers, a melodious song was sung from the clouds to the foothills, from the foothills to the low deserted villages, into the fences, into the yellow webs of a duckling, into the soft spring mud, Spring mud as soft as a newly turned quilt.
So delicate, so sensitive, yet so chaotic. A sound of thunder can make the clouds in the sky cry for no reason; a burst of cuckoo's cry can make a whole city of azaleas anxious; a burst of wind can make every willow tree turn white and fluttering, which can't be said. It’s so clear that you can’t even hear the flying catkins. Each strand of flying catkins is a semicolon of a willow tree. Anyway, spring is so unreasonable and illogical, but it can still be so good that people feel calm.
Spring is bound to be like this. The pond is full of dead leaves and dead flowers, and the withered stalks are as if they are clinging to an old root. The roof beams of thousands of houses in the north are still gentle despite being disturbed by the wind and snow. Holding a small empty nest. Then, suddenly one day, the peach blossoms captured all the mountains and villages, and the willow trees controlled the royal ditches and the river heads of the people. Spring is like a king with a clear banner, which becomes beautiful due to long-term and devout prayers.
As for the name of spring, there must have been such a story: Before the "Book of Songs", before "Shangshu", before Cangjie coined the word, a lamb suddenly felt the spring while gnawing grass. Juicy, the sudden soaring that a child feels when flying a kite, the sudden relief that a wind-stricken leg feels, thousands of pairs of plain hands on the banks of the stream, on the pond, on the river bank of Huansha's hands Suddenly feeling the blood of water... When they were running around telling each other in surprise, they decided to put their mouths into a whistle shape and name the season with a pleasant whisper: "Spring" ".
Birds can start to measure the sky again. Some are responsible for measuring the blueness 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 their wings. And all the birds are not good mathematicians. They chirped and counted, checked and checked, but finally did not dare to announce the statistics. Bees go to catalog. All trees are left to the wind to pamper them. And the wind, turning to the old wind chimes in front of the eaves, remembers and inquires one by one.
Spring must have been like this before, or is it still like this somewhere? Walking through the black forest of chimneys, I want to visit the spring that wanders in the distant era.