Goose feathers are heavy snow, fluttering and sprinkling. I looked up at the sky that had been filled, and let the soft white snowflakes kiss my cheeks. Feel the innocent and selfless caresses of nature. I closed my eyes, but my heart had passed through the diffused time and space, looking at the distant childhood.
Remember the heavy snow, snowflakes hazy village street, a group of disheveled friends, each holding a birch branch or elm branch, the street full of yards chasing down the mountain to forage, lost, occasionally, some partners can lay down one or two, every time at this time, will bring everyone a burst of victory cheers, after cheering, and disappear in the smoky and misty village streets and farm yards... When the snow stopped, the partners ran to the river on the edge of the village with an ice cart under the review of the rows of snowmen, or ran to the slope on the east side of the river with the snow climbing plow, and put the plow down from the mountain to the mountain, happily playing the ancient and exciting skiing, screaming, laughing, shouting and filling the mountains behind the snow...
Again, a light and swirling snow enveloped the ancient village. The scene, which should be an ancient or beautiful print, is a narrow village street, but it seems empty and lonely, and even the children put away the arrows playing in the row, put away the ice gag, and hid in the hut. On the street, occasionally one or two people, must be shrinking their necks, wrapping tightly in civilian clothes, their sleeves, trekking in the wind and snow. Street-side sticks, low mud-walled huts, seem to be deliberately curled up in the wind and snow, helplessly allowing the snow to sway and bury. Only a few pillars of listless cooking smoke and a few dry willows stood firm in the drifting snow.
At night, under the dim light in the grass hut, my mother was busy sewing the clothes and pants that had been torn apart by my naughtiness during the day, my father silently baked me the insoles of the bud rice leaves on the clay brazier, and sometimes, the brazier would "pop, pop" a few sounds, pop out a stream of gray fire, ah, the potatoes were cooked... At that time, my aunt lived in my house, before we went to sleep, my aunt sat in the kangtou, holding a long cigarette bag, the cigarette bag pot was pressed in the brazier from time to time, telling us those old nonsense, (folk tales) what show to rush to the exam, the road encountered ghost beasts, and then rescued by the fairy; the princess threw a colorful ball to recruit a horse, and the fool won the lottery; and also, when the sister-in-law saw the little uncle get a treasure gourd, she got a bad heart, abused and framed the little uncle, although she got the treasure, but was punished, etc., listening and listening, sometimes it will make you laugh and break your belly, sometimes it will make you angry and moved, Sometimes it will make you creepy and scared, and even when you fall asleep, you will be awakened by nightmares. With this string of wonderful and magical stories, I fell asleep.
At this time, the earth, mountains, and grass huts buried by heavy snow are nurturing new stories, new worlds, and new hopes. Wake up in the morning and put on the cold cotton jacket and cotton pants, hiss to the window, in front of the lower glass window to admire the beautiful frost flowers. These frost flowers, like landscape paintings, some like deep valleys and forests, some like mountains and rocks and streams, some like banana coconut trees, some like spruce pines, these fascinating natural interests, at that time really gave me beautiful and distant associations.
After an unknown number of heavy snowfalls, I also changed from an innocent and curious child to an old man who knew his destiny, and the only thing that did not change was the heavy snow that was falling, and my deep love for the snow.
The scenes of my childhood, with the passage of time, gradually melted in my blood, and nourished the evergreen tree of my life, cultivated my beautiful and optimistic soul, gave me a little comfort in the tribulations of life, and also gave me an eternal expectation of the green grass.
I love the dashing, flowing goose feather snow, I love the silver-clad world, I love every white snowflake, and the same crystal pure childhood as the snowflake!
Review: Song Juxin
Brief comment: The author has been pulled back from the snow in front of him to his innocent childhood, playing games in the snow, snow scenes in the village, and telling stories about the brazier by his aunt and grandmother, and the ending tells the nostalgia and gratitude for the snow in his hometown, which plays a role in sublimating the theme.
Final Judgment: Yan Jingxin
Author: Jiang Weiliang, a native of Liaoning. Net name landscape. Retired teacher, love literature, is currently a member of the Qingyuan Manchu Autonomous County Writers Association, Fushun City Writers Association. Novels, essays, and poems have been published in city and county print media, Chinese Poetry magazines, and many online platforms across the country.
Edit: Bu Yi
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