Yakun Night Reading 丨 Verdant Moss (With Sound)

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..... (Excerpt)

The moss that swirls in the wind is a kind of green emptiness, and it is also a symbol of the abundance of rain and dew.

Because it stands taller than other mosses, there are always endless words with the wind, and there are very few things that people can hear and know their meanings. Very rarely, it is said that the growth of crops on the ridge, the jumping fish in the river, the cooking smoke of the stilt house on the ridge...

In the soil of my house, there is always a layer of moss warming a stack of malt. It was late winter, and the sweet potatoes in the field came ashore, ready to chop and boil the wilted sweet potatoes. Boiling potato sugar requires malt, and to malt need moss. The wind outside the house was like a bell, and the snow covered the peaks. There is no moss for heat preservation and moisturization, and the wheat grains do not sprout and do not grow seedlings. This will be, moss is the indigenous of the shiji, thick fur like the verdant of the earth, overflowing with the smell of agarwood.

Once, I was walking deep in the forest and saw a room with traditional boiled potato candy and a few pieces of malt attached to the soil, suspended under the eaves. The sun was yellowish, soft and shiny, shining on damp moss. And the strange beauty of moss, rooted in the earth, is brilliant.

The moss in life, like the rice, wheat, buds, rapeseed, pepper, eggplant, and cowpea that you eat, can't be separated from it.

Moss is grassroots in the countryside.

Rice ears, bamboo branches, sorghum stalks, rotten mats, broken pillows, old tables, dusters... It was as if they had been born with shallow moss. Once exposed outside the stilt building, through the rain and rain and the catalysis of the sun, the spores of moss will grow roughly. At this time, the moss was like a brittle, humble father, curled up in the grasshopper flying for a long time.

The canyon is uneven, like the wind marks of ice. My father was born in the mountains and lived in the mountains, no different from moss.

I turned the moss out of the dust, and the water-stained moss was soft and gentle, and there was inexplicably a neat and elegant color in my hand. I look at every piece of moss, innocent and pure, like a small boat under the moon, and contains such a poem: Let my lonely boat sail into your warm harbor.

I gave this poem to Moss. On the delicate moss, the human language is far away, and it seems that it cannot touch the verdant and light of the dense turns.