After leaving the hometown for so many years, whenever I think of my hometown, I always think of the persimmon tree on the side of the road at the mouth of the village.
Persimmon trees grow on the slopes of the road out of the village, with thick black trunks supporting a huge canopy, deep roots rooted in the ground, and some of the roots drilling out of the rock crevices next to the road.
On a winter morning, there is still a wisp of mist on the mountain, and the sun protrudes from the peak of the mountain, sprinkling its golden light on the quiet village. The sun was shining warmly on their faces, and the little friends began to go to school in pairs, passing by the persimmon tree and couldn't help but look up. The leaves of the persimmon tree had almost fallen, the vigorous branches were stretched out in the air, the broken persimmons left after being eaten by the birds had turned dark brown after being beaten by frost, and several small birds were jumping around on the bare branches.
Magpies, doves and birds of all colours love to rest on this persimmon tree, adding to the vibrancy of the quiet little mountain village.
Little friends hate these little birds, and every autumn the birds spoil more persimmons than they eat. Everyone who sees a bird in the tree will stomp its feet fiercely, and the mouth will "chew" a sound, startling the birds to play.
This persimmon tree brings endless joy to the little friends. When the persimmon is still very small, the friends pick it as a top, insert a bamboo skewer in the tail of the small persimmon, and the friends can lie on the ground and play for half a day.
When the persimmons are still relatively green, the friends will climb up the tree to pick a few and bury them in the soil on the inside of the field, and the persimmons will be crisp and delicious in ten and a half days.
When the persimmons are ripe in autumn, the little friends almost all have the experience of falling from the persimmons, yellow, red and yellow persimmons hanging all over the branches, aiming at a stone to throw up and hit a red persimmon directly slip into the mouth, sweet and honey.
The village is about two or three kilometers away from home, over a beam at the entrance of the village, through two fields, wading through a stream, through a small forest, climbing a small hill, and the friends will arrive at the school.
Standing at the door of the classroom, looking back at the mountain, the mist has faded and the mountain is clear.
"The willow tree by the pond knows that it is squeaking summer", the song before the class was sung, and the children remembered the scene of summer play, and took out the book from the partition under the desk.
Hometown, childhood that can't go back.