Flying wild duck Wen/Afterglow Hair

　　My family lives on the edge of the city, the little river that leads to the river is hardly known, and that's where I'm happy to visit. In the summer, I found a family of wild ducks in the river, a big wild duck, with a group of small wild ducks behind me, about a dozen. There is no need to describe the appearance of the wild duck carefully, which is similar to the appearance of the domestic hemp duck we often see. Any animal was confused, cute, and disobedient as a child, but I found that this group of little ducks was really disciplined, and they honestly followed the big ducks in turn, forming a long straight line; occasionally one or two of them wandered, but immediately returned to the line in a panic. Every time I shoot them, I can incorporate them in their entirety and never miss a single one. They are in stark contrast to another black water chicken family in the river, the little black water chicken is very naughty, one east and one west, and their mother does not seem to care too much, you love to follow behind, do not love to follow it, I have never photographed more than five black water chickens. The wild ducks I saw in the summer made me think that wild ducks were timid and conformist.

　　Autumn came, and on that day I rode more than twenty kilometers to a big lake to see if big birds like geese and swans came. But when I arrived at the lake, I was disappointed, because the shore of the lake was completely built into a cement embankment, and there were no tidal flats, wetlands, aquatic weeds, and only a few reeds. The waves hit the cement embankment, stirring up white waves, the water and the sky are colorful, the momentum is there, but there are no birds. I was looking east and west by the lake, and an old man came over and I asked him why there were no geese and swans in this place. The old man said that there was no grass in the lake, so what did they come to eat? He said he had it when he was younger, but not in decades. The old man also looked up, and suddenly he pointed to the sky and said, "There's a flock of wild ducks over there." I looked in the direction of his finger—there was really a flock of birds flying in the sky, forty or fifty of them. I quickly picked up my camera and pointed it at them until they flew out of sight.

　　The old man went to work in the field, and I sat on the cement polder and looked through the pictures, and the more I looked at it, the more I was shocked—how beautiful the wild ducks were flying, their wings were so strong and powerful, and their flying posture was so tough and focused. The high sky is their stage, the mountains are the background, I and the lake, the fields, the trees, the weeds are the audience, who would have thought that there was such a beautiful scene in this desolate place? Where geese and swans do not reach, they have tenacious vitality.

　　On the silent country road back from the ride, the flock of high-flying wild ducks, like a group of eagles, flew in my heart.