Winter is always a bleak season in my impression.

The sycamore trees on both sides of the road are no longer green, and the lawn is no longer as soft as in summer.

If summer is the dream like a rainbow crushed among the floating algae, then winter is like a crystal ball floating in the night, pure and pure, but also lonely and bleak.

The red leaves fly up the steps

The wind blows and the clouds surging, and the fallen leaves roll up 90,000 miles, floating and flying all over the sky.

I felt the wind in Beijing again.

Someone told me this: "The north wind is mixed with yellow sand, moistening my eyes. It is not tears, but the heart is bleeding." This sentence instantly reminded me of the Gobi Desert, the Sahara, and the boundless yellowish color. What appeared before my eyes was the vast desert and the red sun near the horizon.

Dunmu Hongliang said: "The north is sad." That's true, those vast but desolate lands, the flying black geese, and the dry riverbed... are moving. However, the north is also rich.

The wind roars, and even if the doors and windows are closed, you can still hear the "hissing" call from the wind in your ears.

The willow trees on the roadside all turned to the side, swaying their soft branches freely, and the shadow of the phoenix tail bamboo flashed in my mind, and I suddenly realized that perhaps, the pretty "phoenix tail" of the phoenix tail bamboo is a graffiti originating from the wind.

The one who is most comfortable in the strong wind is probably those banners that fly with the wind. They broke away from the bondage of ropes and wires and offered their most pious dance to the freedom not far away.

The wind is w88 slot, adding a touch of coldness to the winter in vain.

The endless fallen trees are silenced

On a certain morning, I suddenly realized that there were endless fallen leaves in front of me.

It is difficult to find the shadow of the leaves on the sycamore tree, only bare branches extending, dividing the sky between the fingers into small pieces. But the ground was full of dry leaves, piled up thickly, as if the gust of wind last night had blown all the leaves off and spread out the mottled carpet in front of you.

I can't bear to step on those fallen leaves, as if the broken sounds are the tremor of the soul. Perhaps it was the sound from the land, which was light but extremely heavy.

Life will eventually come to an end, and we will eventually embrace our own land, and will eventually be as the Russian moon Akhmatova says, "Call it without any etiquette: 'Own land.'" Perhaps a long time later, our traces in this world will disappear like these fallen leaves, and no one knows it2009That morning of the year, some people walked on this road, and some people stopped and looked at the fallen leaves, but we can still have this beautiful and brilliant life.

Eternity is like a beautiful fairy tale that cannot be realized. Since that is the case, why not live these passing days well? Humming your favorite songs and dancing on the streets wantonly.

The wind is gradually rising, and the leaves are whistling, as if signs of life are surging under the land.