"These houses made of branches, straw, mud, gather here... They are the ancestors of our nests in the high places, the ancient inhabitants we have been looking for. "Oh pin, I suddenly remembered the sparrows in the old garden."
The sparrow, the brown flower that blooms on the branches in Lin Fengmian's painting, is a string of vivid notes on a condensed winter day. The old courtyards of the countryside are filled with the joy and noise of the sparrows, and the twilight is cool and joyful. The courtyard is full of ancient meaning.
The sparrow's song has an inexhaustible earthy color. It is in the authentic dialect, the pull is homely, the folk song is sung, and the agricultural proverb is reported. The chirping of sparrows is heard from time to time on the thin frost branches, just like a few drops of fragrant light ink pouring out on the white xuan, which makes people extremely comfortable and comfortable.
Sparrow, petite and slender body, brown spotted feathers, quite like frost withered persimmon leaves. They flew in the blue sky for a while, meeting in the courtyard for a while, fluttering at the head of the grass stack, and pacing on the snow for a while, making the quiet and quaint home come alive and vivid.
The winter countryside is a simple sketch. One by one, the sparrows crouched among the ochre brown foliage, panicked, and shouted and jumped into the sky. The bird's voice is clear and pure, like a flawless piece of blue field jade, transparent and shiny, making people feel free from the whole body, like drinking good mash.
They cling to rice ridges and sorghum stalks, jump or leap in groups, and in the sun, they are humble and free, creating a cute shadow. They chased, noisily, trivial and joyful, and in the warm winter sun, noisy and faint auspicious meaning.
Neem and bamboo forests after the snow are a paradise for sparrows. The setting sun is stained, and there is a kind of shyness that is about to fade. The forest is full of flying arcs, full of sweet songs. Some of them whisper, some of them talk about love, some of them are warm and warm, like the seamless symphony of orchestral kites.
"Poetry Classic" cloud: the sound of wind and cold feathers is chaotic, and the eaves of the broken grass are drinking severe frost. The wind whistled, and the sparrows stayed in the quiet and thin countryside, accompanying the simple villagers. They bounced and chased around rooftops and treetops, up and down, pieces of paper dancing in the wind. In the wilderness stood the old neem and the yang, stepping on the dead leaves, and there was the pleasure of biting the charred crispy egg rolls. The sparrows rested on the branches, like newborn willow leaves. The old man looked at the sparrow of Joy and smiled, and the time flowed slowly. Someone shouted loudly, the sparrows scattered in panic, and the sunlight was stirred into pieces.
The sparrows settle down as they meet, and the walls, corrugations, grass piles, and reeds can all build nests and settle down. At night we slipped into the warm quilt, heard the north wind howling outside the window, and could not help but worry about the wandering sparrows outside the house, but when we got up at dawn, they were already singing morning songs on the grass piles and on the roof ridges, combing their feathers at the edge of the eaves, and pouring out their hearts without scruples! In the lonely winter, they are wrapped in a remote and mysterious mountain and forest atmosphere, cutting the gray sky, bringing some warmth and life to our lives.
The sparrow once lived in the scorn, curse and harm of human beings, following the footsteps of human migration without complaint and regret, accompanied by the faint cooking smoke of human beings. They fly and scream nimbly in our limited vision, burning a fierce, flying desire in our hearts.
In the cold of winter, we can always feel the sparrows flying and singing like spirits, and we have a feeling of flowers full of buds and spring in our hearts. They are never squeamish or lonely, always living around us in a friendly and humble way, wrapping us in joy, inspiring us with flying, and illuminating us with tenacity.
The sparrow is the man of the city in a gray cotton suit. Let us applaud the twittering sparrows, let us listen quietly to the ordinary and joyful chants of the sparrows. Like a sparrow, using his singing voice to write poetry and recite love in the years, in the hustle and bustle of the floating world, keeping one side of the wind and the moon, abiding by the authenticity, idyllic and peaceful.
