Maybe you are intoxicated by the euphemistic and melancholy sound of drizzle falling on the clay board;
Maybe you are obsessed with the domineering and thoroughness of the sound of autumn wind sweeping away leaves;
Maybe you are enjoying the rich and deep sound of the ancient ship being photographed by the micro waves;
However, I love the sound of ducks in my hometown, the simple melody and memories. ...
I grew up in a poetic water town, surrounded by rippling lotus ponds. Every household is calling ducks into cages. Every time before dinner, grandma stood at the door and giggled at the duck's paradise. This call is high and low, without the modification of words, and the tongue keeps turning in the mouth and becomes a beating note. That sound is not like a rough and unconstrained Shaanxi opera, but like a melodious Huangmei tune. At this time, the ducks seem to have listened to a spell. No matter how clean the water is, no matter how tender the fish and shrimp are, they can't stop their "going home". Sometimes, I will pull their hair playfully and try to catch them, but they will run away smartly. At this point, grandma let me in, and then woke the ducks with a "giggle, giggle" cry, and the ducks came back obediently. When I went out again, grandma had caught a snow-white duck, and I stroked its soft forehead and soft fluff. I vaguely remember grandma's silver hair under the smoke.
However, it is different for every household to call ducks together. After dinner, the usually quiet and beautiful village rang with the sound of ducks barking in different tones. There are sharp and harsh voices, and there are also unhurried and soothing timbres. No sooner had the East fallen than the West rang again. Some of them are dragging a long sound, and the lingering sound is like greeting the person at the other end of the phone. All kinds of duck calls are passed around the river, beside reed leaves and in every household. Echoes are mixed together, but they don't feel tedious and noisy. Move a rocking chair and lean against the door. The evening breeze blows the reed leaves, and the waves beat the ancient ship. Close your eyes and listen to the world. I just want to freeze time and space there, in this beautiful hometown where I was born and raised.
Long-term study has made me farther and farther away from my hometown. Outside, the songs of birds are endless, and another summer vacation is coming. Grandpa called to ask if I would come back. I clearly heard his eager tone, but my parents asked me to stay and study. Suddenly, a very familiar melody came from the other end of the phone, which reminded me of the purest memories of my childhood: the lotus pond, the ancient boat, the duck, and my elderly grandmother. Grandma's phone call at the other end of the phone woke me up. I am like a duck playing in a pond and forgetting to go home-don't be obsessed with clear water and fat fish and shrimp, and don't let the summoner of the duck worry about you. I should go home.
So I got on the train home. In the evening, the sunset is a little bit, and the afterglow is sprinkled, reflecting the quiet mountain village warm and bright. Next to the lotus pond, an old man and a young man, a tall man and a short man, accompanied by a duck cry, painted a most touching picture.
Father's flute
Vaguely, I haven't set foot on this moonlit path for years. The path was paved with pebbles by my father himself, and there was a dim and soft light under the moon. At the other end of the road, it connects the cabin by the river with my father. Father, are you still sitting on the shore, playing the flute sadly, waiting for your son's return?
Father likes playing the flute. When I was a child, my father's flute filled my childhood fun. Like that ribbon-like river, it drags my childlike innocence in the harbor of father's love. My father loves my only son very much. He always likes to pinch my face with rough hands. He cried in spite of my pain and smiled foolishly. Every evening, my father takes me to pasture cattle on the grass by the river. He often let go of the cow rope and let the cow eat grass by itself. He pulled out his flute from the straw basket behind him, drummed his cheeks and blew out the most beautiful music in the world. I leaned on my father's lap and watched the sunset on the horizon dye my father's hair a little golden. I love my father, whose flute is the most beautiful.
As I grew older, I began to hate my father: I hated his smoke and his yellow teeth; I hate him coming to school with a straw basket on his back and staring at me stupidly from the window; I also hate that he has no skills, only knows how to take care of a few acres of thin land, and even my tuition has not been earned back. My father and I gradually separated. After being yelled at several times by me, my father stopped going to school barefoot and nagged me to study hard. He has been silent, and the only way to break the silence is to play the flute, such as complaining and crying. In my opinion, this has become a sign of idleness.
I go to school in other places. The night before I left, I walked on that familiar path and felt a little attached. The road is like a ray of moonlight on the ground, crossing my heart. I haven't been home for years. My mother told me on the phone that after I left, my father seemed to have lost all day, so he just went to the river to play the flute without thinking about tea and rice. Finally, I went home at my mother's request. It was already evening when I got home, and the moon had just risen. When I was walking on the path with endless thoughts, I met my father who was waiting for me. I burst into tears and hugged my father. I asked my father to play the flute for me and my father agreed. The choked flute sounded in my ears again, on the moonlit path, reminding me. Feel the father's love for his son as soon as possible and feel ashamed of his flute. My father loves me. He played the flute for me for more than ten years, and now I find that it can ring so strongly with my heart!
The road is beautiful, beautiful, and it is the mark of the moon. The moon is the soul of the road and my father's flute is my soul.
Walking on the busy street, my ears are filled with the sound of passing cars and the same sound of selling snacks. The eardrum that entered the vegetable market has exceeded the decibel it can bear. I don't know from that moment on, I was a little tired or even disgusted with this "bustling modern voice", so I began to miss the "high mountains and flowing water" described by the teacher in Chinese class ...
The first ray of sunshine in the morning hangs lazily on the withered leaves that have already yellowed through the dense leaves. As soon as the mountain wind blows, I hear the sound of a few feet of dead leaves rubbing my shoulders. It's so broken. Listening to this unbearable scenery, I smiled indifferently, the perfection in the deformity, my long-lost voice. The leaves are shaking. It's not the touch of the wind, but the flapping of thrush on the branches. It's not all the thrush's beating, but the thrush's singing, which is sweet and euphemistic. Break the peace of the morning. I was completely intoxicated and fell asleep on the dead leaves a few feet later.
At noon, the strong sunshine sprinkled on my face and shoulders, woke me up with its crisp voice, continued my journey, looked for the sound of nature and came to the stream. The running water is playing, barefoot like me. I smiled at them, and then they tinkled. The sound shook my heart, and I felt sweet and cool. Looking back now, that sound is like Beethoven's pastoral symphony, soft and beautiful. While I was daydreaming, I heard two little bulls "Cleisthenes". Hehe, that sound scared away the laughter of the stream. The cry of Cleisthenes is a comfortable expression of this harmonious rural scenery! There are also pastoral songs floating from the flute of the little shepherd boy on the back of the cow. His eyes were slightly closed, and I think he was intoxicated by the beautiful scenery. Sitting on the boulder protruding by the stream, I saw the beautiful scenery in the distance. That is a yellow paddy field. Even if it is a little far away, I can still feel the faint fragrance of rice. I also heard the hymn of insect cicada prayer on the rich ear of rice. I think I should also sing "cicada, cicada." But what do I know? Maybe cicadas know.
At night, she hung down a gorgeous and noble dance skirt, and she was attending the feast that night. The evening breeze blew, and the coolness drove away her sleepiness. Listen, tenor and soprano form a chorus, yes, not only frogs, but also nightingales. This is an autumn love song.
The night fell asleep with the last ray of moonlight. Waiting for her is an early morning that the world will miss, a gorgeous beginning. The voice that touches my heart comes from nature, from the quiet and fresh countryside.
I suddenly woke up from such a harmonious night "Sir, you can't smoke in the supermarket." "Why not, smoking is illegal? I'm not eating and living here, MD! " ……
I put down the "pastoral scenery" puzzle in my hand, and the sound of "cicada, cicada ..." rang out in my ear. Can you hear me?