If I could, I would like to be a shepherd, not to herd cattle and sheep, but to build a hut by a small river, sing around the stove, and drive the wilderness. Wild, unfettered, wandering skeletons, just like wandering in the vast universe, let the imagination change colors, let the mind run freely.
In this vast world, all things coexist in harmony, creating a new tomorrow one after another. The distant mountains are like Dai, like a gentle stroke of an ink pen, outlining the delicate lines, gentle and flexible, chuchu moving. The colorful leaves are interlaced, like a huge carpet with strong colors, bright and gorgeous. The sun is like fire, and the wheat fields at the foot of the mountain are bathed in rolling heat.
The golden wheat straw gushed into waves of wheat in the wind, like a huge flowing sand dune, wandering aimlessly between the vast heavens and the earth. The smell of roasted wheat pervades the smell of sunlight, and the aroma penetrates the nostrils, enticing to the heart, so that one has to pluck a few ears of wheat and smell them carefully. I would plunge into this huge golden blanket like lying in a cradle and listening to the crickets' sleeping song. The grass grows wildly, high, low, straight, or curved, in short, it can grow into the shape of their dreams. Thyme and wild chrysanthemums are dotted among the herbs, and they are feminine and charming, without the slightest pretentious attitude.
Bees sing around delicate flowers, butterflies dance softly with a wisp of wind. In the reeds, wild ducks flapped their wings and laughed and played, and the sound shattered the flat surface of the water as a mirror, opening a circle of ripples. A few egrets dressed up on the bank of the river, so that they could then fly up to the blue sky without staining the dust, leaving the world with a beautiful and lonely back. I would wander through the vast expanse, letting the wind push eastward to west, slowly stepping into the twilight.
The night suddenly fell, and it was too late to be prepared. Thousands of stars flashed their eyes to the side of the moon mother, listening to the mother tell the story of the Milky Way Bay. The moonlight and stars sprinkled on the leaves of the flowers and plants, like a layer of silver powder, shining with cold light. I saw the mist gently descend on the leaves, in the petals, condensing into transparent droplets of water, moisturizing their delicate faces. My long eyelashes also shone with dewdrops of silver diamonds, piercing through the darkness in the endless night. This little light is the star of the dawn, guiding me in the direction of the way.
Morning light, sunset, sunrise, moonset, day after day cycle, year after year. I was so intoxicated in this wild and interesting field that I often forgot that I was a herder. Maybe forgetting is the best fulfillment. To present oneself as a herder is to place oneself at the height of a wide-eyed being, which is obviously inappropriate. Forget your identity, when you look at a flower, you become a flower; when you look at a cloud, you become a cloud; when you meet a river, you become a river. Looking up at every tiny life in a posture as low as dust can always be moved and fill the soul.