Be afraid, be afraid, the cold wind is coming, and the footsteps of winter are approaching.
Everything looked like it had just hibernated, and I closed my eyes in panic. The mountains have become dry and silent, the water has shrunk, and the sun's face has turned yellow.
The grass fell silently into the ground, decaying and withered. In the garden and in the fields, you can see that there are little clumps of them everywhere. Walk, step on, stamp your feet a few times, kick your shoes a few times, race a few times, and hide and seek a few times. The wind is blowing and the grass is soft.
Poplar trees, willow trees, ginkgo trees, you ignore me, I ignore you, they all have fallen leaves and are gasping for air. The tall ones are like telegraph poles, the thin ones are like fishing rods, and the bent ones are like radish stems. There is a bitter taste in the leaves; when you open your eyes, poplar leaves, willow leaves, and ginkgo leaves are still hanging on the trees. Thousands of leaves under the tree were weeping, and leaves of various sizes were floating here and there. There are leaves all over the place: various kinds, with names and without names, floating in the air like butterflies and dancing girls, laughing and singing.
"The bone-chilling northwest wind" is not bad, it feels like a witch's hand caressing you. The wind carries some primitive earthy smell, mixed with the smell of dead grass, and the fragrance of various leaves. They are all floating in the slightly dry air. The magpie settled its nest among the bare metasequoia trees and became happy. It called for its wife and children and sang a hoarse voice, singing a monotonous tune in harmony with the cold wind and rain. The dance music of the women in the square was no longer playing passionately at this time.
Rain is unusual, it lasts for six or seven days at a time. How annoying. Look, it looks like ice beads, like grass seeds, like random threads, floating in the rustling, and there is a thin layer of smoke on the roof of the house. But the tree branches are so white that they shine, and the grass is so withered that it blinds you. In the evening, the lights were turned on, and the yellow halo lights highlighted a lonely and desolate night. In the countryside, on the road and by the cement bridge, there are people walking hurriedly holding umbrellas. On campus, there are teachers and students studying in the evening, wearing ponchos and riding bicycles. Their figures are sparse and flowing in the rain.
The birds in the sky gradually disappeared, and there were fewer children on the ground. In the city and in the countryside, every household, old and young, is also hiding, as if returning home. The students rubbed their palms together, cheered up, and were doing test papers for various subjects. "The hardest days are in winter." Throughout the year, some are busy and some are harvested.
Winter is like a newborn baby, naked from head to toe, dormant.
Winter is like an old lady, with a withered face, sighing and moving.
Winter is like a sturdy old man with an ice-like face and a whip, driving us forward.