In winter in the north, if you drive along the road, you will often clearly see the bird nests on both sides of the road.
The warm days passed, the autumn wind was as tight as one day, the thick leaves drifted with the wind, and the bird's nest leaning on the branches was exposed. The birds know that the day has come to leave. They twittered and flew south in groups to find warmer days, leaving empty nests swaying on the branches.
This is a unique sight in the north. Often close to the head of the village, there is a piece of open wilderness, several large or small trees, standing bleakly. Poplar is the most common, sparse several, naturally distributed. On the branches of a tree, there is a bird's nest, like the only fruit left in a cold winter.
Poplars do not bear fruit, it is the branches that convey messages, like lanterns lit at night, illuminating the cold night. Seeing that the bird's nest on the branch was empty, the villagers knew that the cold day had begun.
Facing the wind and snow, the bird's nest shakes and shakes in the branches, like a lamp that has gone out, all without the vitality of the past, conveying a kind of loneliness and helplessness.
The bird's nest on the branch at the head of the village is empty, and the village has lost its vitality.
Because I was busy, it was only in December last year that I returned to my hometown where I had been away for many years. This is a mountain village with hundreds of families. In such a deep mountain, it can be regarded as a large natural village. The village is built according to the mountain, along the mountain, scattered, natural and simple. Behind the village is a mountain, at the foot of which is a babbling river, and on the other side of the river is a winding road. The road winds along the opposite mountain and extends deeper into the mountain.
For hundreds of years, the river has nurtured the village in the mountains, nourished the unfertile land here, and nurtured the people of the village for generations. Today, this not-so-fast river separates the only road in the mountains from the village, as if it were cut off from the outside world.
A river that has flowed for hundreds of years is filled with the joys and sorrows of the villagers.
The river is wide, shallow, clear and sweet. In summer, the clear river spread out on the very wide river, swinging layers of ripples, birds swept close to the surface of the water, and then flew past; there are fish in the clear water, among the colorful river pebbles, swimming over and back, have a different kind of interest. The villagers built many thin, winding canals, led the clear river to the fields, and transformed the small plots of fields dug out from the rubble into fertile fields where rice could be grown. In the depths of the mountains, on the banks of a wide river, there is a charm of Jiangnan water village. It is also a miracle that people in the mountains who have eaten corn for generations can also grow rice with their own hands at their own door. However, the fields that can produce rice are only a few pieces as big as a slap, and the charming scenery of the south of the Yangtze River is only so short a few days, and the people in the mountains still have to rely on heaven for food.
The mountains are the world of stones, and the people in the mountains have to compete with the stones for land, looking for land where crops can be grown in the cracks in the rocks. Strips and plots of land were sorted out, dug deeply, fertilized and planted with crops. Seen from afar, it is like smearing colors on the color palette, with a thick pen in the east and a light color in the west, with some artistic atmosphere, which often inspires the creative passion of those passing photographers. Do you not know that those are the result of the struggle between the mountain people and the stone for generations, the blood and sweat of the mountain people for generations, and the hope of the mountain people year after year.
However, in many years, the people in the mountains still had a hungry meal and lived a life of starvation. Starting from the coldest days of the year, the adults strangled their belts and used the little food left in the earthen pots to survive the most difficult days of the year, waiting for the spring flowers to bloom and the bird nests that were empty for a cold winter. greet the birds returning one by one.
The bird's nest on the branch flows with the crisp singing of the birds, and the silent mountain village rekindles hope.
My old house is a large courtyard, which is not many in the village. There are several houses with green brick and gray tile structure and tall gatehouses, and there are few in this mountain village. This is handed down from our ancestors, and it has been handed down for generations up to now.
According to our elders, we used to be a big family. I don't know why we built such a house here and settled down for generations, because of the mountains and water, or because it was far away from the world. There is no record of it.
There are six main rooms, green brick and gray tiles, white ash hook seams, Dougong flying eaves, carved window lacquer doors, showing a strong ancient meaning. The steps paved with bluestone slabs arched the foundation high, and the house appeared solemn and towering, showing a majestic demeanor. The carved window lattice appears exquisite and simple, but there is a kind of decline on the yellowing window paper. The dilapidated roof, there are several small trees, I do not know when, in a row of gray tile cracks, growing out, shivering in the wind, not a bit of vitality. There are two cypress trees in the yard, which are very thick and have a deep ancient meaning. It must be similar to the age of this courtyard, and those detailed rings must record the old history of this big family.
The green bricks on the floor in the yard have blurred the original color. The long aisle is even more worn out, which is the trace of years and the past actions of generations, leaving an indelible memory for future generations. The courtyard in this mountain used to be so prosperous, and so many men and women, young and old, with all kinds of foot sounds, knocked in the silent mountain village, knocking out one ordinary year after another.
For now, however, the compound is still there. However, it seems so empty.
Walking up the bluestone steps, pushing open the thick wooden door, into the dimly lit house, as if walking back to the last century. The furnishings in the room are simple and simple. It can be seen that the furniture has been for some years, but the production of exquisite is bleak, has already lost the elegant demeanor of that year. Under the window is a hot Kang, the sun shines in, and I can see a bird clearly, pacing up and down there.
This is an old bird, its feathers seem to have lost a lot, mottled, like an old tree about to die. Walking on the hot Kang covered with plastic sheeting, unhurried, calm and sophisticated. To see someone come in, tilt his head and look at it, he doesn't care very much. It seems common to him that people go in and out. In front of it, there is a small bowl, containing some golden millet, another small bowl, holding water, a peck and drink, is so natural and casual. I can see that it has been here for some time.
The uncle said that when winter came, the birds flew to the south one after another, leaving it alone, guarding the empty nest. Finally, one day, the cold wind swept away, and it could not stand the cold wind. It fell from the branches and was picked up by the villagers. When he saw that he was dying, his uncle pitied him and put him on the fire Kang to feed him so that he could enjoy the warmth he deserved.
It is too old to fly, so it can only keep its empty nest. My uncle looked a little bleak, and when he said this, he couldn't help but be moved.
My uncle has reached the age of 70 this year, and he is the youngest and the only one left among the elders. the responsibility of guarding the old house naturally falls on him. He lived in this mountain for most of his life, witnessed the prosperity and decline of this courtyard, experienced the process of a big family from lively to lonely, and almost became a part of this old house. I am the boss of our generation, and my uncle intentionally entrusts me with the future of the old house. However, although this old house is old and antique, has experienced so many ups and downs, leaving the afterglow of the family ancestors, however, in the depths of this mountain, in this remote place with inconvenient transportation, how much value does this old house have to preserve?
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