The yard is the center of the world.
Father lit the dawn with fireworks, then mixed grass for the old cow and felt the time in the chewing sound. When his father waved his broom, the whole yard became his own rice paper, and he was intoxicated.
Smoke from the kitchen chimney filled the yard and woke up swallows and sparrows under the eaves. Mother covered the yard with rice fragrance. We are also cheerful swallows, surrounded by our mother, jumping and cheering happily.
The yard is not big.
I grew up in the yard and left.
In my thoughts, the yard is full of dreams. Is it my father's fireworks or my mother's eyes that fascinate me? In the evening, I simply packed my bags and walked towards the yard.
Birds are whispering, the old cow is chewing time, the kitchen smoke is filled again, and then everything in the yard is intoxicated.
I walked into the memory.
2. Eyes
A wanderer is a kite flying everywhere.
And the eyes are the ethereal and real silk thread.
Mother reminded the wanderer behind me with her eyes. Her thousands of words turned into a string of thoughts, which crossed Qian Shan and reached the heart of the wanderer. During the journey, thorns cut the clothes of the wanderer, and mother sewed them with her eyes.
Father's eyes are always so firm. When the wanderer is weather-beaten and his eyes are full of tears during the journey, his father's words will always be conveyed through his eyes: son, be strong!
Wanderers travel in fragrant flowers and return in the winter sunshine.
Look all the way.
A wanderer knows that he will never leave his parents' sight.
Step 3: path
This path connects the footprints of childhood together and then extends to the distance.
It's a long way, and memory is the way home. This road carries heavy feelings. The grass on the roadside withered and reborn. The cycle of years made it weather-beaten, but it made it stronger. Path, send me on a long journey in the wind and frost.
Country roads are a memory. My father will lean on the head of the village and look forward to it. In his blurred eyes, he saw himself farming in the field. This is a dynamic figure. He walked quietly and retreated to the moonlight. The path extended his father's whisper into the distance and then fell silent.
It was that country road that led me back.
Simple. Peace. Quiet. Quiet.
This road is full of my ideas.
4. Country poets
A country poet stopped in Yuan Ye, and the geese flying south were his poems, embedded in the sky and filled with blue.
The hoe is the pen in his hand, and the wheat ridge is the poem in his heart, which awakens the sleeping swallows and he gives them the poem.
There are endless poems in the countryside, and Yuan Ye has endless literary thoughts. The poet grabbed a handful of dirt and danced in the wind, as if writing words on snow paper with wine. Vilen intoxicated the poet, and so did the countryside.
The poet hides the poem in his heart, just like secretly loving a charming woman, with the seeds of love in his heart. Lift the flaming veil, and a face as red as a peach blossom is the most beautiful poem.
Touching sorghum and wheat, the poet smelled the smell of maturity, invaded his heart and landed on his chest, and autumn came as scheduled. Stripped of gold, the poet decorated his heart with grain and turned it into a burning sun.
Poets sing for the village and Yuan Ye. Everything about vilen is his loyal audience. The words on the tip of the pen leap into vilen and fall into colorful dreams.
The poet sang and danced as he walked.
5. Carry a basket
The village was recited. Those men who carry baskets carry weeds and dirt home and build simple houses with the hope of rising.
As a result, the village is alive. She exudes the fragrance of wild weeds and wild flowers in the field, reveals the charming shadow of geese flying across the sky, flows with the loud cry of newborn babies, and is filled with the smile in the wrinkles evacuated by the old grandmother.
In the basket, I leaned out and looked at the outside world. My parents are floating away like clouds in the distant fields. Wild sparrows are singing and dancing, and flowers are whispering. Only in the basket can we feel the colorful differences in the world, and those colorful flowers are scattered on the way home. Jump out of the basket and I'll travel far.
But I dare not look back and look at the basket again. Mother's turbid eyes shed two lines of crystal tears, and his father's already bent back turned out to be like tall and straight sorghum in the field.
The distance is still far, but the road needs to be step by step. The arm of the basket is the direction to go home. Vilen is full of smog, and night covers the village. When the wanderer returns, the slight footsteps still break the silence of the night.
In the silent time, I saw the bright eyes of the basket.