The anchor reads the classics and accompanies you to say goodnight. Hello everyone Here is lightning night reading, I am Zou Lu Rong media anchor Yang Fei. Today, I will share with you Zhang Xiaofeng's "Nostalgia of Spring" and feel the breath of spring together.
Spring nostalgia
Zhang Xiaofeng
Spring must have been like this: from the green and introverted mountains, a handful of snow could no longer hold up, and with a snort, the cold face was laughed into a flower face, and a song was sung from the clouds to the foothills, from the foothills to the low deserted villages, into the hedges, into the yellow webs of a duckling, into the soft dissolved spring mud - the spring mud as soft as a newly turned quilt.
So delicate, so sensitive, yet so chaotic. A thunder, can cause the clouds to cry for no reason, a cuckoo cries, can fight a city of azaleas, a gust of wind, each willow will chant a white, ethereal fluttering can not speak clearly, can not hear clearly, heard clearly, every flying feather is a semicolon of a willow. Anyway, spring is so unreasonable, illogical, and can still be too good to make people feel at ease.
Spring must have been like this: the dead stems full of leaves and flowers resisted the death of an old root, and the beams of thousands of houses in the north were oppressed by the wind and snow and gently held a small empty swallow nest. Then, suddenly, one day, Peach Blossom captured all the mountain villages. The willow trees controlled the royal ditches and the folk riverheads. Spring is like a king with a clear flag, and it is beautiful because of the long-term pious desire to pray.
And about the name of spring, there must have been such a story: before the Book of Poetry, before the Book of Shang, before Cangjie made characters, a lamb suddenly felt juicy when it was cutting grass, a child suddenly felt the soaring when flying a kite, a pair of legs suffering from wind pain suddenly felt comfortable, thousands of pairs of plain hands suddenly felt the blood veins of water when they were on the banks of the river... As they rushed to tell each other in amazement, they decided to pout their mouths into the shape of a whistle and name the season with a pleasant whispering voice: "Spring."
The birds can begin to measure the sky again. Some are responsible for measuring the blueness of the sky, some are responsible for measuring the transparency of the sky, and some are responsible for measuring the height and depth of the sky with those wings. And all the birds are not good mathematicians, they squeak and count, check and core, and finally dare not announce statistics.
As for all the flowers, it has been left to the butterflies to count. All the rudders, leave it to the bees to compile the book. All the trees, leave it to the wind to indulge. And the wind, handed over to the old wind chimes in front of the eaves to inquire one by one.
Spring must have been like this, or, somewhere, it still is, right? Through the black forest of chimneys and chimneys, I wanted to visit the spring that was hesitating in the distant years.
About the Author:
Zhang Xiaofeng, pen name Xiaofeng, Sangke, Ke Tuo, etc., is a famous artist of the third generation of essayists in Taiwan. He has written essays, new poems, novels, plays, essays and many other genres, most famously prose. His major works include "White Handkerchief", "Red Handkerchief", "Spring Nostalgia", "The End of the Carpet", "Homesickness Stone" and so on.
Anchor Profile:
News anchor of Zoucheng Rong Media Center, Yang Fei.