At the foot of the rugged Taihang Mountain in northern Shanxi, there is a land that has nurtured thousands of children of Wuyuan-my hometown-Daying. She is a lovely and charming town, and the yellow scenery in autumn is particularly inseparable.
The winding Hutuo River water passes through a long mature cornfield, an acre of low-rise Chaoyang field and a paddy field with abundant wheat ears. She is the milk flowing from her mother's arms, constantly moistening the grayish yellow weeds on both sides of the riverbed, depicting withered poplars and withered yam seedlings. She is also the blood circulating under the skin, washing away barren mounds, smooth and round stones and crystal clear gravel day and night.
The sky is like a bowl with blue glaze and white peony pattern printed on the bottom. It is inverted in Fiona Fang, with the town as the center. The hay was blown aside by the northwest trade wind, and the sheep on the hillside were coming here with their bloated buttocks. After the sheep passed, there was only a small hair root left in the hair follicle of the earth. Yang Shulin is a mess. Yellow leaves are piled into a thick space quilt, tightly covered with undulating soil, and occasionally a few thorny thorns are exposed. A rabbit hiding in a pile of leaves poked its head out of the hole, its eyes shining like rubies embedded in its eyes, and looked warily at passers-by or prepared hounds. Once the target is exposed, it will not hesitate to run in the other direction. Its cleverness is sometimes unbelievable. It will never run out of the border of the forest. Because running in the open field is equivalent to a trap, there is no doubt that it is a toy for hunting dogs.
At this time, the stream has begun to get cold, and fish and shrimp are rarely seen. There is only one kind of noodle fish, which looks like a small snake and has two tentacles sticking out of its mouth. Occasionally, it will waddle from one bunker to another. It twisted like a ribbon, trying to bury its head in the bunker, and then stopped twisting; The tail turns around like a belt, and the harvest stays quietly on the sand surface, waiting for the natural sediment in the stream to cover it. This kind of fish has neither ornamental value nor edible value, so they can spend the coming winter safely until the next year when the ice melts and spring blossoms.
A nest of fat quail secretly built its nest in a dry canal under the ridge, and brown weeds provided it with good shelter. They gave a low cry of "Gollum-Gollum", and then two identical responses came from another pit not far away, which is probably slang for sending blessings to each other. At night, the paunchy sheep contentedly followed the first sheep and walked home with the bell. From time to time, the shepherd throws a shovel with slender wood and shoots it accurately next to the half-hearted sheep. With the thump of Tukhara's landing, the lambs immediately woke up and jumped into the crowded sheep, and the quails not far away were also started. Their short wings vibrated up and down with difficulty, but they flew away slowly close to the ground. Without their tails, they sway from side to side like airplanes without vertical tails.
A straight cement road connects Xixi River and Lucheng. The majestic poplars stand upright on both sides of the path, and the tall treetops cross together to form a bare arch. Yellow leaves are dancing, spinning, meekly obeying the arrangement of the wind, and scattered randomly in fields, plains or paths. When a car gallops by, they will experience flying again and jump into bushes and haystacks. My partner and I put our legs deep into the fallen leaves, and each imagined the tragic plot of being buried in the pit in the TV series, leaving only our heads outside.
Behind my house is a bleak and desolate field, with sparse brown-black roots that have been cut from the Chaoyang plate and dried up due to water loss, revealing a white bag as soft as cotton, which has the same texture and effect as plasticine when torn off and pinched in the palm of your hand. Neighbors regularly go to the fields to bring back bundles of Chaoyang poles and pass them to the stove to cook. With the disappearance of autumn, the figure of straw in the field gradually disappeared, leaving only sharp stubble heads still exposed on the surface. The owner of this land will never have to worry about the arduous reclamation work in the next spring. These rhizomes are excellent materials for burning yam in the wild. On a crisp autumn evening, my partner and I pried them up with a shovel, piled them into a hill in an orderly way, put yam with soil on it, and found two dry cow dung to spread on it. While chatting, we dispersed the thick white smoke with pieces of paper. After everything turned to ashes, we found a tree and dug up some black balls from it like a treasure hunt. Potatoes cooked with wheat stubble and cow dung like this have no strange smell, but will suffocate a caramel sweetness in the yam on the sand surface.
At night, a cry came to my ears. I suddenly woke up and found my partner lying on one side sleeping soundly. We both fell asleep like mice in a small hole made of peas. The voice is getting clearer and clearer. It was my mother's signal to tell me to go home. I rubbed my eyes and woke my partner, and we climbed out from under the peas in turn. The stars in the sky twinkle like a night pearl on a black curtain, and the Big Dipper hangs brightly over the northeast. The evening breeze with the cold smell of earth easily penetrated the autumn clothes and crashed into my arms, so I crossed my hands and rubbed my arms up and down, but it still didn't help. The cold wave left countless small white spots on the blue bricks on the wall. When the moon shines on them, they shine like diamonds, echoing the bright stars in the sky. Fairy tales are not necessarily drawn on such a gorgeous night.
The autumn yellow all over the mountains always inadvertently urges people to give birth to a kind of melancholy. It is not as melancholy as missing someone, as exact as thinking about one thing, and as unhappy as being lovelorn. It's just a little sadness in my heart at a certain moment, for example, you are driving alone through a deserted hill, or you and your friends who are leaving are pushing cups for a change.
One late autumn morning, the air was filled with faint water mist. I stood at the highest point of the lonely mountain and looked around greedily from near to far. The lake adjacent to the lonely mountain is like an emerald filter embedded in weeds. The magnificence and immaculate purity of the water waves make me feel relaxed and happy inexplicably, and there is a great momentum of "lonely smoke in the desert and the long river setting the yen". The lake is overgrown with weeds and lush, and a few gray bald ducks fly out from time to time. They flapped their wings and paddled through the water to the blue area in the middle of the lake. Then, a palm-sized dark yellow field came into my eyes in turn. Like Tetris, they are square, rectangular or angular, and spread in all directions with exquisite lines, extending to the foot of Taihang Mountain, the white border of Yang Shulin, the quiet and leisurely roadside and the villages where smoke is curling.
I often miss the beauty of my hometown when I am wandering outside. Speaking of the word "nostalgia", I always naturally associate it with the word "autumn yellow", which can remind me most. It is not only an adjective, but also a noun. If it doesn't make sense, I can understand it. Whatever you say.
I am obsessed with walking alone in the Woods, probably from the late autumn of the second day of junior high school, that is, the year when my first deceased relative, Grandpa, died.
On a quiet morning, when most people in the town were still asleep, I went into battle alone, crossed the bleak celery field, crossed the small wooden bridge above the Hutuo River and plunged into the uninhabited East Yang Shulin. It's empty and deep, gloomy and cold. I stopped to listen to the chirping of sparrows on the high branches, the croaking of homeless frogs by the stream, and the humming of grass bent by the dew as thin as mosquitoes. The leaves with red spots and deep yellow have got rid of the imprisonment of the body and the spirit has fallen freely. They are carefree, scrambling to throw themselves into the embrace of the land, worrying neither about the passing of life nor the passing of time. It is a lofty realm of self-denial and detachment.
Accidentally started a small white rabbit that might be eating. It flies sideways on the ground along an arc like a high-speed Scud missile. I approached the fallen leaves that it had been hiding, and found that four or five white mushrooms were dug out with a small piece of soil. The umbrella cap of the strongest mushroom was chewed off by the rabbit, leaking fresh pulp. It turns out that rabbits love mushrooms in primary school textbooks.
Please forgive my love for my hometown is scattered and abstract, and it is intermittent in my memory. Sometimes it is. We only think of people when we see things, and only whisper when we are emotional. It is difficult for us to maintain a lasting relationship step by step in our brain like putting a complete pizza in the refrigerator.
In short, a thousand affectionate eyes are not as good as one sentence after all: I love you, and my hometown is Qiuhuang.