The rustling creaked and the silver wrapped in everything quietly, looking up into the distance, it was the snow white of the northern country.
In the village, three or two children, stepping on the footprints, smile happily, and their pure eyes bloom with joy; the chicken cubs in the corner of the wall, flapping their wings, rush to the neighbor's dog, venting their unique existence; the reeds that still do not fall by the small river, accompanied by the wind blowing down a few pieces of crystal clear; the white pine is stubborn, the dense needle leaves are green, and the north wind chases the sonorous, and wraps a white coat at will.
On the seemingly quiet field, under the mulch film is the bloom of life, the warm sun in the spring is the backpack of the harvest; the string of thick footprints, walking in a hurry, must be the backbone of the family. Where there are years of quiet mountains and rivers, but someone carries your confusion and bears the sorrows of life.
Watch a snow fall to appreciate a neon dress, sprinkle under the street lamp, hold your breath and listen to the snowflakes flying, the rustling sound rings in your ears, as if you go back to the time of childhood, the young little hands and green face, snuggled in the arms of the mother, vowing to tell interesting growth.
Caught off guard in a trance, the little ghost next door pulled me to the cherry tree, thinking it was cunning and thinking it was panic, there was not so much reverie, just curious about this plain wrapped silver suit, and the hope of the increasingly full teeth embryo. The magpies flew to the walnut branches as far as the ears could see, and seemed to be alert and flew to the riverbank trees.
At night, the distant mountains are vast, the locomotives on the way home are parked on the side of the road, and the street lights that lack light are slightly dim, but it is still a precious dawn, the dawn of hope.
The food in the kitchen is fragrant, the living room is getting along, whether it is the same can not erase the panic of the 2020 epidemic, whether you remember the day and night cycle of standing guard, the cold wind and someone is guarding your health.
The year of the rat is a dull time, and it is not a peaceful time
Listen to the sound of the snow falling, calm down and think about what makes us feel overwhelmed and confused, is the ignorance and delusion of coveting the food chain.
All things have spirits, how can they do their best, reflect on it, this curled up in the year of the rat.
Listening to the sound of snow falling, it is not so wandering, Ruixue is pregnant with expectations, unyielding spirit of unyielding struggle, wind and frost will always stop rain and snow will always stay.
This snow white silence, this snow falling rut is still there, this cluster of hope is full of vitality, standing pine cypress, generosity in the bones, must survive the haze of this chase.
The snowfall in the next year must be kind in the heart, the snowfall in the next year must be full of joy, and the snowfall in the next year must be innocent