Text/Qi Yaping
In the village, birds can be heard all year round. The village had birds chirping, like music poured into the silent brain, and the stiff nerves also came alive.
In the countryside, the most common are land, crops, mountains, ravines; there are also small roads, large roads, cliffs, cliffs and so on. However, these are very old, as if they have existed since the beginning of Pangu, but when you first arrive in the village, surrounded by rolling mountains and intricate ravines, and you can't hear a bird call, you will definitely feel bored and boring.
But don't worry, the birds have arrived as scheduled- the sky has not yet been fully lit, and there are finches sneaking from this wall to that wall, and the flying needle seems to be threaded, connecting the days of the day. By this time, the magpie has also knocked on your window ledge, and it uses its tiny pointed beak to knock on the hollowed-out lattice window, making an incongruous "hissing" sound. This makes you, who are accustomed to lying in bed, irritate yourself, you will definitely cover your head with a quilt, continue to pretend to sleep, if you can't fit it, simply jump up, and at the same time throw the pillow to the window, trying to deter the foolish magpie, however, it has already flapped its wings and flew away.
You're sure to mingle with these smug elves, because you think the birds' singing is very much in tune with yours. They are always leaving clues and scratches in the afterglow of your eyes, making you fond of these clues and scratches from an early age. When you sit on a green-skinned train going south or north, the scenery that quickly recedes outside the window becomes a small figure that lights up the village - those small figures, always with a little leg and a flap of their wings, can emit all kinds of beautiful songs. You're not surprised why their swift posture is always with you. Because you know, a child who grew up in a village has his own bird sounds in his soul, and even he has the language of birds. When you are coerced by the long road and livelihood in the lonely journey of the end of the world, the birds in your body will grow stronger and stronger, driving away the confusion and uneasiness of the long journey.
The birds heard most often in the countryside are the finches on the eaves and the magpies in the old nest. These two birds always consider themselves to be impatient, and the "music" of the whole village is "played" by them, whether it is early in the morning or at dusk, they always sing their own "music" tirelessly. When you travel thousands of miles back to the village, with your hands behind your back, like a weathered old woman, leisurely becoming the "observer" of the birds, you feel more indifferent and comfortable than ever. And when you stand in front of Mr. Woodpecker who pecks at wood, you hear the sound of the magpie pecking at the window, coming from under Mr. Woodpecker's lips—you see this woodpecker in motion, dressed in a flower coat and shaking a beautiful flower crown, like a maiden, twisting his waist, agitating his sapphire blue eyes, staring at the "vital parts" of the dead tree, and swallowing the pests down his throat. You are foolish to see it—as if the woodpecker was an invitation from inside the wood, making every woodpecker bird both solemn and serious. These woodpecker elves healed the sick woods, and the village remained young.
Every day of the year, the life of birds does not seem to have a clear direction and purpose, they just fly, just make trouble, just forage, just peck at wood... In winter, the dry smell is thick, and the finches are still trivial, still chirping and flying. The magpies are still ignorant, and in front of your window and behind your house, there is a rattling sound, and At this time Mr. Woodpecker rarely appears. At dusk, flocks of red-billed crows took off from the horizon, and after lighting up the last scenery in the twilight, they disappeared into the deep cliffside amid a series of unpleasant "aaaah" sounds.
Spring has finally arrived, and the birds are more cheerful. In addition to finches, crows, pigeons and woodpeckers, there is also a pheasant with a long and beautiful tail, they stretch their small heads, and their necks are elongated to make a broken gong-like "clicking" sound, often just a few hoarse, and then quickly burrow into the artemisia grass pile. There is also a kind of nightingale, commonly known as the "idiot bird", the ancient Greek female poets called the nightingale "the messenger of spring, the nightingale of the beautiful tone", but I can't recognize what it looks like, but I see it more in the book. The cry of the "nightingale" is simply a symbol of the night, other birds are active during the day, while the nightingale only uses the night as a stage. I still can't fully distinguish their sounds, because every night there is a chorus of vicious dry babies with vicious backs, and the whispers of unknown bugs. When these indistinguishable sounds were close to exhaustion, suddenly there was a long and terrifying "whine-hoo When people are going to be asleep late at night, these owls will open their glowing green eyes and continue to "whimper" – of course, if the owl is also a bird, it is the unlucky bird that people least want to hear and see, because its appearance always represents something negative.
However, under the change of times, birds seem to be fewer. I remember the red-billed doll and owl I haven't seen for years. Sparrows and magpies are most commonly seen in the village. But these common birds, other than noisy, seem to have no other interest. However, in the heavy life of the farm, it is a kind of happiness that can hear these birds. In ordinary days, you just have to bury your head in work, they just call, unconsciously the peach blossoms and apricot blossoms have bloomed, unconsciously, the peach blossoms and apricot blossoms have fallen. The birds are still bouncing around you, performing their collection of singing:
"Tweet"!
"Click"!
"Aaaah"!
"Woohoo"!
At this time, you patted the dust on your body again, laughed alone, and turned to go farther into the dusk...
About author:Qi Yaping: A native of Qingyang, Gansu, he is a member of the Qingyang Writers Association. Passionate about literature, he has insisted on writing for many years, and his works have been published in "Rural Public", "Fine Short Stories", "Yellow River Literature and Art", "Dadu River", "Shenzhou Literature", "Gansu Economic Daily", "Zhanjiang Daily", "Baoding Radio and Television News", "Longdong Daily", "Liaoning Literature and Art", "Five-and-a-Half Poetry Journal", "Beidou", "Kowloon", "Yellow River Elephant", "Mountain Soul" and other paper media, and hundreds of essays have been published on various network platforms.
Submission email: [email protected]
One Point No. Scroll Wenyuan