My hometown is an obscure small village. It has no bustling and noisy city, no tall buildings and beautiful neon lights that people look up to in the city, and no traffic lights that indicate the passage of vehicles. However, it has a joy and sweetness that everyone can enjoy alone.
Whenever clusters of winter jasmine blossom on the ridge of the field, and the wicker buds bloom in the village, we run in the vast and boundless fields like flying pigeons, or lie on the soft land, watching the swallows return, listening to the birds sing and listening to the cries of wheat seedlings jointing. On the ridge, people are talking happily and hoeing the ground. From time to time, we are wild.
On the solstice of summer, the fragrance of Sophora japonica fills the whole village, and our crisp laughter ripples under every Sophora japonica tree. Cicadas are singing endlessly, and unknown dogs are squatting at the master's door with their tongues out, even strangers are too lazy to bark when they pass by. At night, cicadas rest, dogs sleep, and only frogs bark tirelessly. Adults walked out of the house in twos and threes, shaking their cattail leaf fans and tying them into a pile of laughing.
Autumn is the busiest season of the year. Every ear is heavy. When the wind blows, there is a lot of laughter everywhere. The roar of the machine, the sound of food jumping on the machine, and the shouts of children are all mixed up. Very lively.
At this time, in the middle of winter, snowflakes drifted by, and the flat streets, patchwork roofs and uneven branches were all wrapped in silver. At this time, we are even more excited, learning to sweep and gather like adults, and turning piles of snow into grotesque snowman, majestic Spider-Man, or snowballs rolling around on the ground. At this time, you will feel that winter here is more beautiful.
I love my hometown. My friends who go home from school at dusk and my loving parents are the cradle of my memories.