Meet the morning, meet you

In the early morning, a person does not feel lonely, the flowers on the riverbank bloom fresh and delicate after a good night's sleep, and I often stop by a sea of small flowers. There might be sunlight that day, or only the shadow of a great cloud, and the wind blowing from the riverbank, swaying the petals and foliage like a silent conversation, and I stood there, silently participating in a secret conversation between them that no one knew.

Of course, when there is sunshine, it is the best, all you see in your eyes is joy, the mountains are misty, the morning fog is still in the mountains, and the distant buildings are in shadow on one side and in the light on the other. I sat there, on the stone platform of a flower bed, watching for so long, with an empty heart, flying a bird, a bird of freedom.

Man-made rivers, deliberately changing the flow of water, sitting on the left bank of the river, can not see the river, can only hear the dark roar of the river, covering the early morning bank. In the river, those places where there is no water, occupied by weeds, grow wildly, and enjoy the short summer here.

What surprised me the most was that in the clearing where it was intercepted by a huge cement dam, several poplar and willow trees grew, and the small current on the other side converged into a small puddle where two yellow ducks often swam. When human beings are far away, nature begins its own footsteps, slowly, and again so obviously showing itself.

On the banks of the river, a few years ago someone planted a large number of flowers, and later no one managed them, they bloomed on their own, secretly decaying, I noticed, slowly, the weeds began to fight for their own place of survival, a large number of artificially planted flowers, with the advantage of numbers to maintain the last prosperity, I do not know in which spring of which year, the weeds will retake the land.

When I was a teenager, I came here on weekends, when the artificial buildings had not yet arrived, and the river washed out of the river, leaving high walls, I often looked for ancient fossils and ores there, and every time there was a surprise discovery, but unfortunately, the stones that I used to like were lost when I moved. Now the artificial flower beds and the stone paths along the coast have covered the ancient land.

There's nothing to be sorry about, I used to think so. People come and go, the grass and trees wither, are the way this world is. Everything is related and will be especially clear at some point. The poplar trees that grew in the open space of the river, their seeds had once withered on a poplar tree on a land, had been transported here with the soil, or washed here by the river, and then the river was diverted, and they stayed on the land formed by chance, and began their journey of life, which seemed to be accidental, and seemed to be composed of countless hypotheses.

In recent years, these artificial buildings on the riverbank have been unmanaged, the stone steps have begun to collapse, the stone railings have begun to break, the wild grass has grown and blossomed between the gaps in the stone slabs, and the sun is always irrelevant to each other, quietly illuminating all this, even if it is empty and desolate. I am the same, for all this, I come or not, they are still like that, maybe I accidentally stepped on a grass, because of my arrival, changed the posture of growth, but for this vast world, as if nothing had happened.

Will the rivers dry up one day? I remember that before, they were so abundant and intense, but now, artificially gathered together, they can have the power to gallop, and this power, in the hustle and bustle, reveals the smell of decay.