〇遠山 (prose)

〇遠山 (prose)

Yesterday afternoon, I climbed up the hill in front of my old house in search of plants for childhood.

Many small plush fists, raised from the ground, hold the bright light of spring.

Everything in the sun shines brightly, and perhaps knowing that I am taking a picture of the landscape in the village, the grass, the roads, the fields, the ponds, and the birds singing, cheering with excitement.

I stared ahead, and suddenly, a mountain slammed into my lens.

Climbed many times, each time sweaty, thrilling, the closer to the end, the more I feel weak, breathless, gritted my teeth to the end.

It stood tall in the northwest, ten miles away, and had long since melted into my childhood years.

From a distance, it looks like a baby sucking a bottle, like an old man's smoking mouthpiece, and up close it is actually a stone temple. There were no monks, but there were incense sticks, and the walls kissed by the warheads were full of vicissitudes.

Rest on the peak, overlook the scenery below the mountain, and reminisce about the process of climbing, as if all the spring breezes in the world are blowing towards me.

The meaning of climbing a mountain is not to sweat, not to toss to the point of weakness, but to enjoy the pleasure of being conquered by the mountain, to do a free physical examination, and to communicate with the breath of the mountain.

Otherwise, it is not a real climb, at best it is called a walk.

Come down from the mountain, carrying a full harvest. I thought, I haven't been to the top of that mountain for a long time, the leaves are green and red, there will be a period later, and after the spring has passed, it must be summer.