Chapter 12 nostalgia of spring

Spring must have been like this: from the top of the green and introverted mountain, a handful of snow can no longer hold it, and with a puff, the cold face smiles into a flowery face, and a song is sung from the clouds to the foot of the mountain, Sing from the foot of the mountain to the low barren village, into the fence, into the yellow webs of a duckling, into the soft spring mud—soft as a newly turned quilt. So delicate, so sensitive, yet so stewed without boundaries.A sound of thunder can cause the clouds to cry all over the sky for no reason, a burst of azaleas can rush a whole city of azaleas, and a gust of wind can make every willow sing a song of whiteness, fluttering and indescribable. , Listen to the catkins that you can't listen to, every trace of catkins is a semicolon of willow.Anyway, spring is so unreasonable and illogical, but it can still be so good that it makes people feel calm.

Spring must have been like this: the pond is full of dark leaves and flowers, withered stalks stick to a piece of old roots, and the beams of thousands of houses in the north are still tenderly hugging a small ball under the pressure of wind and snow. The empty swallow's nest, and then, suddenly one day, the peach blossoms captured all the mountains, villages and rivers.The willow trees control both the royal ditches and the folk rivers——spring is like a royal master with clear banners, and the regiment has long been devoutly looking forward to praying and becoming beautiful. As for the name of spring, there must have been such a story: before, before "Shangshu", before Cangjie created characters, there was an episode where a lamb suddenly felt sweaty while eating grass, and a child suddenly felt sweaty while flying a kite. Feeling the soaring, the sudden relief of a pair of legs suffering from wind pain, the sudden feeling of the blood of the water in the hands of thousands of bare hands on the bank of the stream, on the bank of the pond, and on the sand by the river... When they are running in amazement As they told each other, they decided to purse their mouths into a whistling shape, and with a pleasant whisper volume, they would name the season - "Spring".

The bird can start measuring the sky again.Some are responsible for measuring the blueness of the sky, some are responsible for measuring the transparency of the sky, and some are responsible for measuring the height and depth of the sky with their wings.And all the birds are not good mathematicians, they chirped and counted, checked and checked, and finally they still dare not announce the statistics. As for all the flowers, I have given them to the butterfly to count.All the pistils are handed over to the bees for cataloging.Let all the trees be pampered by the wind.And the wind, hand it over to the old wind chime in front of the eaves to remember and inquire one by one.

Spring must have been like this, or, somewhere, is it still like this?Traveling through the black forest of smoke baskets and smoke baskets, I want to visit the spring wandering in the distant age.