Childhood in the wheat field

Dear friends, it's the New Year.

I use incomparable affection

greets you

Perhaps, my greetings

It'll bring you some relief.

But the festive firecrackers

is my most faithful blessing.

Chicken, duck and fish are extravagant hopes when they are young

But what I need right now

It's your warmest word.

The sound of firecrackers is us.

a testimony to the friendship

Just like the wine glasses we hold up

The more mellow, the more fragrant.

Maybe snowflakes can unite our friendship.

But the flowering Chinese plum in the courtyard

is our most loyal witness.

Home is the precipitation of our four seasons missing

But she can ignite us.

a never-fading homesickness.

It's New Year's.

Even though we're separated from each other, that part of space-time

But years.

How can we block our strong feelings of missing

Maybe thousands of miles apart.

Maybe it's close.

But, the kind that can never be given up

is my best regards.

New Year, no age difference

After the beginning of summer, the black yellow bird began to be anxious, urging the peasants to rotate the yellow harvest again and again; the sun also appeared to be a little anxious, the mild temper became impatient, wheezing and pouring hot air, the wheat in the field was peeling, shouting in unison: hot, hot, cut, cut!

The black yellow bird called. It was time to harvest the wheat. Father said. His father, like his forefathers, was a true farmer. The life of sowing and harvesting in the cycle of spring, summer, autumn and winter is their established life track, and it was also an unforgettable experience of my childhood and youth, especially the experience of the first wheat harvest.

In my memory, when I was seven or eight years old, it was the season of harvesting wheat again. A group of children running wild in the village were collected by their parents and began to harvest wheat. That time, amid the cries of the black yellow birds, after their father had sharpened their sickles, he took down a sickle from the rafters under the eaves. It should have been a sickle that had been mastered by several generations. After years of tempering, only a narrow crescent moon was left. Its thin body was full of rust, making it difficult for people to get close to it. However, when my father changed the handle again, and then Huo Huo ground to rub off the rust on it, the thin body actually appeared small and lovely, so that I love it, a change of resistance before, strongly want to go to the ground to cut wheat.

So on that fine afternoon, I carried the sickle, followed my parents, and rushed to the wheat field. Along the way, katydids called Huan, wild flowers bloom Yan, but not as in the past let me pay attention to, on the contrary, those who have been dismissed weeds, but aroused my interest. As I walked, I was like a general holding a sword galloping on the battlefield. I killed all the way, only killing the weeds on the roadside. When I arrived at heaven and earth, I was no longer faced with small-scale shrimp soldiers and crab generals, but with troops dressed in gold armor and neat military appearance. They had needle-like wheat awn on their heads and confronted my sickle. However, under the leadership of my parents, I had my own tactics to deal with them: first half squatting on the ground, left foot in front, right foot behind, then left hand holding a waist, right hand sickle into the root, a pull, Huo, wheat will fall to the ground; Again grasp, then pull, wheat and fall in a Huo Huo sound, unconsciously submerged in a happy rhythm.

However, the mechanical stretching is monotonous and weak. When the arm wielding the sickle gradually aches, when I bend over for too long and can't stand up straight, the previous grandeur has long been thrown into the clouds. I am tired and squatting on the ground without image, and my beloved sickle has been abandoned. But in front of my eyes, my parents are silent to cut a ridge and then cut a ridge, as if not feel tired at all.

Suddenly, there was a flash of inspiration in my mind, so I didn't care about my waist and legs. I quickly picked up the sickle and rushed to the wheat field to harvest the wheat. I didn't follow my parents 'rhythm, but quickly opened a half-meter-wide passage and meandered forward. At that moment, it seemed that the scythe in his hand was the shovel in the militia's hand in Tunnel Warfare. When he waved it, he dug a tunnel. When he bent down, he really felt like he had escaped into the tunnel. It also seemed that the scythe in his hand had turned into a mouse's front claw. As he dug, he penetrated a fortress underneath. He also felt that the winding passage was like a dragon's body. The mountain wind blew, bringing up layers of wheat waves. The dragon really seemed to shake its head and tail. At that moment, in the golden wheat field, childish imagination spread its wings and flew into the sky, dancing in the clouds.

When the imagination in his mind paused, he looked back and saw a crooked passage interspersed with the golden wheat field. At that moment, he felt a sense of accomplishment with a sickle in his hand. The so-called complacency was not excessive. And in the back, parents side step by step to advance, while also conveniently tie I cut down the wheat, at the same time I will build a camp step by step to nibble, capture. Although the heart does not give up, but vaguely know that the pace of life can not be tolerated because of the game and slack, so had to turn around, more hard left and right.

At that time, in a field of wheat with golden waves, one party immersed in imagination to enjoy the game, the other buried in the work silently harvest; one party flying in the clouds, the other rooted in the earth, forming the most moving picture under the blue sky. Perhaps at that time, children's innocence could not fully understand adults 'pragmatism, but adults carefully cared for that innocence, tolerated them in the wheat field wantonly play, leaving the next ear of wheat. Or perhaps, when looking at the child immersed in the game in front, there is also a slight gap, adults will flash in front of their childhood in the wheat field game scene. The calf-like landscape of the field may have bloomed in their childhood.

Perhaps for parents, field work, after all, is a contest of physical strength and mental strength: day and night busy toil, eating pot slurry rough deal; scorching sun burning back suffering, hungry with the moon and return already tired body can no longer afford to consume more physical strength in the game, so can only pull the plow like the old cow, silently, bow to cultivate. For me at that time, the joy of the game was enough to relieve the heat of summer and the fatigue of slow work, so that the golden wheat field became a paradise for me to indulge in games.

In the golden wheat field, I wrote a brilliant poem on the paper of my life with the sickle in my hand.

Author: Teana