When I was a child, I always rejoiced in the wheat season, and the adults said that the wheat was yellow, but everyone always had to investigate how far it was from the wheat shoots to the wheat roots.
Even the birds are constantly urging in the sky to "count yellow, count cut", which shows how urgent the wheat yellow season is. I saw my father take out the sickle that had been idle for a year, carefully wipe off the dust on it with a special rag, put the grinding stone, put a bowl of water on the side of the stone, and start grinding the sickle. Mother was not idle, she had to tidy up the yard, and pick up some old clutter to a remote place to pile up. At this time the village was quiet, the puppies were lazily rejoicing in front of the door, and the roosters were leading the hens to wander gently in the field.
It was as if it were a brief period of tranquility before the Great War. When I saw the ripe wheat falling in pieces, I saw the sweaty backs of my parents and villagers. A group of us little children either carried baskets or empty-handed, put the ears of wheat left by the adults into baskets or bundled them into small grasps in our hands. The joy in our hearts is no less than that of an adult, though we must endure the burning hands and arms of Mai Mangza from time to time.
Looking up at our village, near noon there was no cooking smoke, and she seemed to be asleep at this time, perhaps drunk by the wheat fragrance in the field, so quiet that the rooster's chirping seemed to be a flame.
A gust of wind blew through the mouth, and I saw not only the undulating waves of wheat, but also my father's bronze back and my mother's low-hanging breasts, which were my childhood granary! At this moment I saw it dangling on my mother's chest, already shriveled like an empty cloth bag that would pour out all the grain.
Just such a group of children, sitting on the ground, like a flock of perched sparrows, chirping, first than the harvest, to see who has more ears of wheat, whose ears are large, whose grains are round, and then it is more than craftsmanship, to see whose wheat whistle is beautifully made, to see whose sound is loud. Clumsily, he pinched a piece of wheat straw, squinted one eye, and looked at the sun from the wheat pipe.
Especially at night, when the melon blossoms are also blooming, we catch a few fireflies and put them into the melon flowers, tie them with a red silk thread stolen from the mother's needle and thread, and parade in the wheat field with a small melon lamp, accompanied by a wheat whistle in each hand. At this time, the mountain village is really quiet, the dog does not bark and the chicken does not crow, most of the adults are at home to prepare tomorrow's work, the father still has to prepare the sickle and the burden of the wheat, the mother is preparing the noon field to eat, where do they still care about our group of little farts, naturally they also know what we are doing, they are very relieved. There are very few wolves in the mountains, and they are not afraid to take us away. There were no child thieves, because if a stranger came to the mountain village, it would be very eye-catching, although there was still no hiding place for them in the mountains and forests.
Looking at a bright moon overhead, carrying a small melon lamp, blowing a wheat whistle, I don't know who shouted loudly: Look - the village - asleep - really good! We all watched with curiosity. At this time, the village was really quiet, the windows were closed, the doors were closed, really like a naughty enough to quiet down and fall asleep. We all applauded and applauded the discoverer. The wheat fragrance that rippled in the moonlight shook and fell...
Writing this, my mind is full of maixiang, village, childhood, hometown. If how far the road from wheat shoots to wheat roots is a childhood question, then how far is the road from middle age to childhood, how far is the road from the rivers and lakes to the hometown, is my question at this moment...
Review: Dan Gui
Brief comment: Short works, giving the taste of wheat: wheat ears, wheat waves, wheat whistles, wheat fragrance... The village is seductively quiet and beautiful during the wheat harvest season. From less to more to the maturity of the hometown, it has witnessed the sophistication of the writing style.
Final Judgment: Yan Jingxin
Author: Zheng Xueliang, pen name Dafeng, a native of Shaanxi Shangluo zaoshui County, a member of the Shaanxi Writers Association, one of the "Eight Families of Shangluo Poetry", and a selected writer of the first "Hundred Talents Program" of Literary and Artistic Creation Talents in Shaanxi.
Edit: Bu Yi
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