Immigrants from big rice fields

In April, stepping on a light rain, stepping on a thick spring, listening to the cheerful chirping of birds on the branches and humming "Walking on a Country Road". On my back is my simple bag and my beloved camera, which blends myself and my mood into the green mountains and green waters of my hometown.

Jumping out of the car, a sweet smell of mud came to my nose, and I couldn't help bending down and grabbing the mud and smelling it hard. When I looked up, clusters of small white flowers looked at me like bright flames, more like dazzling starlight. I know this is a boring flower. My mother used it to smoke mosquitoes in summer when I was a child. Walking on the ridge, pulling out a root of Houttuynia cordata Thunb. and chewing it gently, it smells fishy and hard to swallow over time. By the pond, the new willow is some green eyelashes, and each long branch is decorated with the breath of spring. The wheat seedlings have just turned green. From a distance, the field looks like a dark green carpet with blue sky, white clouds, breeze and drizzle painted on it. Even the stream at the corner of the mountain is active, and the music of "Ding Dong, Ding Dong" breaks the loneliness in winter.

Walking along the path, the childhood school is still there, the wall cut by adobe is mottled, and the black tiles on the roof are covered with unknown grass. When the wind blows, it is in danger. When I entered the classroom, the words "study hard and make progress every day" were clearly written on the dark wall, and the portrait pasted on the surface was broken, but I could still recognize Zhang Heng, Li Siguang and Lei Feng. Weeds are overgrown on the playground, and several ping-pong tables stand alone. It's hard to meet a person in the open Shan Ye, and occasionally meet a woman or an old man. The familiar stone steps are no longer noisy in the past, and the ancient wells are still the same, just bare wells, and there is no sound anymore.

Gu Jing's neighbor is a large paddy field, and the withered figure of wild celery is still shivering in the cold wind. It is not difficult to see that no one has cultivated it for a long time. I can't help but think of a summer when there were so many loaches in the field. I picked up an earthen basket, dug a small canal, made a gap and put cow dung on it. In a short time, some greedy people are always fooled. Shunguo is a distant relative, older than me, with a pair of squints and a lot of tricks. Pick up the dried cow dung and light it. Put loach wrapped in tung leaves on it, roast it and eat it with salt. That smell is still fresh in my memory. Once, I almost caused a mountain fire, was reprimanded and caught loach, but Daejeon remained in my mind. At that time, the countryside was very poor and it was difficult to be a wife. I still remember the nursery rhyme of Shun Guo Jiao: red rooster went to the haystack, but his parents didn't say anything to his wife, and his beard turned white. Alas, the land is a quilt and food sleeps on it. Think about this barren land. Do you really have to wait until your beard turns white? A burst of sad helplessness just floated up and was pushed back by himself.

Standing on the top of the mountain, apricot blossoms are like a group of brides wrapped in white clothes, shy and low eyebrows, and the whole village is full of fragrant white flowers. A gray turtledove flies across the sky, a bird chirps and a flock of birds chirps. This elf "chirps" about the love story of spring, and can't help but think of the poem "Spring pigeons go to the house, apricot flowers bloom at the edge of the village". The cow "moo, moo" barked in the wind, just heard it, and was dragged back by the wind, hiding under a gloomy tree and refusing to come out. Guanshan is even more speechless!

Look at the terraces built by the state to resettle immigrants many years ago, which have been piled up by the years. In some places, fields are not like fields and slopes are not like slopes, so they are bare. The ridge like a rope has no laughter in the past. The Grand Canal, which once led water up the mountain and made countless people proud, has now become "a decoration for the deaf's ears". The scene of collapse, blockage and subsidence is gone forever. The pond weir around me was built that year, so I couldn't help jumping. I didn't know what I stepped on, so I fell to the ground and smelled of grass. It turned out to be cow dung. The huge pond weir has become a cattle farm, which is associated with the spring drought 20 1 1 that has not happened in Shiyan area for 50 years. Fortunately, there is an old well here, otherwise it will be thirsty and fall apart! Some people think that water conservancy is the lifeblood of agriculture! Seeing the barren terraces and dilapidated canals, people should not treat bean bags as improper dry food!

Hometown is a sad memory, always floating in the lonely night, cutting the same thoughts and winding them in the chaotic thoughts. I don't complain about homesickness. I just want to see my relatives buried there, see the changes in my hometown, remember the weeping willows on the embankment, remember the bridges, ancient wells, flowing water and so on under the light of the white wall and the tile. She is like a silk, attached to my heart, holding my tendons and tying me tightly, so that I can recall the changes of time with the simplest writing. People are gone, and my attachment remains the same!

A wisp of smoke, a little bit of words, floated across the village lightly, slipped away, and was turned outside the village by the passionate wind, warm and reaching the heart. The hometown haunted by dreams and the mountains and rivers accompanied by life and death can make this city stop her hurried steps? Looking back at my hometown, there are raindrops sliding before my eyes, such as rainy April, which wet the back of spring. Tomorrow, tomorrow, who will sweep away the sadness in this place?