Zhao Huining | to pass the old man's village again

Maybe hidden behind a sycamore leaf, or lying on the edge of a bird's nest, or stinging on the bud of a chrysanthemum, a cicada call, a bird song, a hint of bee chanting, the autumn wind rises, the field is full of encroachment sounds, like waves, a sound, a wave after a wave. I didn't touch the shudder of the land, but I saw that the land was bending over and lifting the green on its back higher and higher.

The encroachment continued, the tumbling continued, the lifting continued, but I felt crushed. The rolling green rolled over the head, over the body, over the limbs, over the internal organs, flattening every nerve. In an instant, the body was empty, light, and pure. The corn is pulling, and my heart is also pulling.

The branches of the catalpa tree stretched out, trying to catch the sunlight and create a ghostly place, and any of the fierce men plunged into it, into the green belly, and explored the secrets of the green inside. The breeze did not hold the birdsong, and one or two suddenly fell from the gap between the leaves, and the gap between the leaves became wider, and the sunlight followed in. The leaves were not caught for a while, and there were countless spots of light on the road. The wind rises, the trees move, the leaves turn over, and the light spots flicker. A sparkling river stirred the field unsettled, but fortunately in the sticky green town, the quiet quickly closed the cracks.

The green is viscous, but not overbearing, leaving a few gaps in time, allowing the melodious aroma to come in. Turning a bend, two wall-like greens lifted out a lake. Protected by the green of the city walls, the lake is surprisingly quiet and deep, as if a big thing is brewing - the conceived perilla is beginning to sit on the seed, and a trace of aroma is escaping from the placenta, and the light music is not hurried.

The sticky green blocked out the sound, but the sound learned to climb up the corn stalks with a crane. The beans climbed tired, simply circled around, and opened a few flowers with a few star-sized spots. Within a few days, a few green sentences spat out from the flower tray. Sentences support each other, and within a few days they will become a noisy waterfall. The sounds of the countryside are not piled up, chickens and dogs bark, birds and birds are chanting, all grain by grain, only the rural slang that is fed by cooking tobacco learns to cook tobacco. The paused sound continued to climb upwards, and as soon as it reached the head of the corn tip, it either swept horizontally along the tip or was lifted up by the tip and floated high.

Lower than perilla is a piece of chili pepper, sunken in the swaddling of the earth, the wind does not come in, and the flowers are dotted among the leaves, rice grains, white. The few peppers that had been stained red by the years hung dangerously on the branches, and they were not worried about falling, and they swung freely on the swing, causing those green-faced stunned heads to run to red. A young daughter-in-law with a hoe in her hand is bending over to hoe the grass, occasionally squatting down to hold up the waterfall where the pepper branches are flowing, staring for a moment, and then gently pumping her hand. One by one, the peppers swung up on the swing, and I don't know whether it heard the giggles of the babies, or whether it was scratched by the green to the laughing hole, and a burst of laughter that did not help itself scratched the field.

Turning the corner, the concrete pavement is wider. The sun poured down, there was no obstacle, and it poured down, and a river of quicksilver ran out. On the riverbank, a few bulbous chrysanthemums hold up full yellow to watch the tide rise and fall. Autumn leisure time, just right for female red. At the feet of several women forty miles away were round needle and thread baskets, and the colorful threads in the basket were laid out like a rainbow. When the head flying needle is threaded, the corners of the mouth are slightly opened, and one or two slang slips out from between the lips and teeth. The other picked up the tail note and continued. After a long time, another oblique interjection.

Come to the intersection, where the sun meets and then disperses in all directions. A five-acre square in the northeast direction is pushed to the front by the green behind it. In a few brick flower beds, clusters of daisies look for the sun, looking for the charity opening in the sun. The breeze is gentle, gently bowing its head, occupying the top of the September list, but lowering its eyebrows to the green. Several elderly people carried chrysanthemums on their backs, facing the sky, squinting their eyes and sucking the sunlight, sucking the chrysanthemum fragrance in the sun. In the wrinkles in front of the forehead, at the corners of the eyes, and at the edge of the collapsed mouth, the sunlight climbed over and over again, and flipped through it again and again, climbing and flipping through it once, and the bones of the sunlight softened a little. Read the old man's sunlight through the body, deeply trapped in the indifference of the chrysanthemum. The laughter of several children playing basketball stirred the sticky green into folds.

In the northwest corner of the cross stands a building. It is three layers in the middle, decreasing once along the two sides, in an arc- shape. After passing through the building, to the west and north are lined up in a row of the first five, the last five, and the three boxes on the left and right. The huge canopy of walnut trees in front of the house shaded a shade. In the shade of the trees, the daisies and Gesang flowers are mixed with the narrow flower beds, and the colors are diverse. Next to the entrance hall, three or five old people squatted on the maza, mouthing long pipes, in the bright and extinguished Mars, in the smoke of the support and tucking, talking about the parents and the land mulberry. Shade shade the door, the sound whispering in the shadows. There are several cavities drowning on the flower buds, and it is difficult to extricate themselves.

On the first floor of the three-story building is a small supermarket, where people sometimes come and go, and sometimes people come and go. In the flower bed at the door, the chrysanthemum is in full bloom, and it is a pure yellow one. From a distance, like a cloud of yellow smoke. Up close, the twisted or spiraled leaves are even more feminine. The unevenly raised the brown color of the rice grain as if provoking a river, but there was no trepidation. The traffic is dusty and noisy, and it never tilts its head sideways. Some people knew that it was the deceased, and there was a hearty roar at the next door, and a cup of chrysanthemum tea was placed on the round tea table at the door. The chrysanthemums with tight petals loosened up at the sight of water. Only to see that one petal after another was gradually unfolded by the water. Soon, a chrysanthemum bloomed in the cup.

The owner of the supermarket was the branch secretary of the brigade. For many years, he read the village as a book, and he still read it for half his life. When planning the development of the village, he should write a big book to plan. In fact, he wanted to write a small poem. The background color of this poem must be green, except for chicken and duck grains, and chrysanthemums should be planted at the doorstep of the family. He was afraid that the September of his life would be too stingy, too thin. I think he definitely knows Tao Yuanming. When the new countryside was built, Tao Yuanming's village was built, which was also his own village.

This is Wangge Village, Shanhe Town, Zhengning County. Five or six years ago, my wife worked in the primary school in the village.

Before leaving, Feng Zhenbiao, the old branch secretary of his old friend, the planner of the new countryside, and the owner of the supermarket, got up and gave it to him. In the village primary school not far away, students were chanting Meng Haoran's "Passing the Old Man Zhuang", and he simply followed up with a sentence: "Stay until the day of Chongyang, and return the chrysanthemum."