Everything seemed to be just hibernating, and I closed my eyes in panic. The mountain died, the water shrank, and the sun turned yellow.
The grass fell into the ground silently, rotting and withering. In the garden, in the field, you see, the small clumps are all yes. Walking, stepping, stamping, kicking shoes, running and hiding. The wind is wheezing and the grass is soft.
Poplar, willow, ginkgo tree, you ignore me, I ignore you, all have fallen leaves and gasped. It is as high as a telephone pole, as thin as a fishing rod, and as bent as dried radish. Leaves are bitter; Open your eyes, there are still poplar leaves, willow leaves and ginkgo leaves hanging on the tree. There are hundreds of leaves crying under the tree, and leaves of different sizes are floating around. Leaves are everywhere: miscellaneous, named and unnamed, floating in the air like butterflies and dancers, laughing and singing.
Yes, it's like a witch's hand touching you. The wind has some quaint earthy flavor, mixed with the smell of hay, and the fragrance of various leaves, all floating in the slightly dry air. Magpies nest in the bare Metasequoia and become happy. She called his wife and children to sing monotonous songs, echoing the cold wind and rain. The dance music of women in the square is no longer passionate at this time.
This rain is unusual. Each time lasts for six or seven days. It's really annoying, like ice beads, like grass seeds, like messy silk, rustling, and people's roofs are covered with a thin layer of smoke. The trees are bright white, and the grass is dry and smoky. In the evening, the lights are on, and the dim light sets off a lonely and desolate night. In the countryside, on the road, by the cement bridge, there are people who walk in a hurry with umbrellas, teachers and students who study in the evening on campus, riding cars in ponchos. Their figures are sparse and flowing in the rain.
The birds in the sky gradually disappeared, and there were fewer children on the ground. In the city and the countryside, every household, old and young, also went home and hid one by one. The students are all rubbing their hands and cheering, and they are all doing papers in various subjects. "The hardest day is winter". All the year round, some are busy and some are harvested.
Winter is like a newborn baby, light and dormant from head to toe.
Winter is like an old woman with a haggard face and a sigh.
In winter, he drives us forward like a lively old man with a cold face and a whip.