Xuancheng Xikou summer composition 600 words.

Xikou is named after a large Xigoukou near the Yangtze River. During the Guangxu period of Qing Dynasty, the site was built, which was the starting point of the official oil road, tea salt and tung oil in Hubei Province and the once prosperous commercial port wharf along the Yangtze River. 1967 After the Wan Li Highway was opened to traffic, the annual rings gradually declined. Indigenous immigrants were built in the Three Gorges Water Control Project, and Laojie moved to Pujia 9 Team. The streets built are sparsely populated and empty, filled with tranquility, desolation and loneliness. Occasionally, I saw three or two old people sitting around the bench in front of the door, chatting about the past of old sesame seeds in Xikou. . .

After leaving for many years, I was walking on a country road in Xikou with my Nikon D7000 digital camera on my back. The road is covered with weeds. In a place where I walked as a child, I gently pressed the shutter and heard a slight touch.

Climbing the mountain and finally seeing the face of the old house. The carving of the mud brick arch and plaque has long since vanished in the slow fire of time. White walls, curled up in the wind and rain, patches of blue tiles, footprints crawling over moss, wooden beams eroded by wind and rain, crumbling. The years have stopped in this mottled desolation. The door was ajar, and a ray of sunshine shone in front of the dark room. It is yellow and soft, just like the elegant agarwood in soup and medicine, which attracts me to go in and look for a kind of mother's inner warmth. Dark and bright, so I walked carefully on the Tian Zige of the years, shuttling between the modern and the past of that time and space. Every step is so cautious, and the years are so fragile in this old house, like a touch and a word, I will come back.

Walking in the courtyard of the old house in the powder room, this ancient and quiet breath quietly wrapped me and made me stop and linger. Time is swaying in the old house, it floats into every door, every window, and it penetrates into every slate. Gently, I walked in the yard of this old house, walking in the light and shadow of the years. Not everyone who lives in this old yard has a house as bright as a mirror. On the contrary, the clothes hanging high on the roof to dry can highlight the peasant life in this old yard, which is very ordinary and real. . .