Prose "The Wind Across the Village"

The wind blows endlessly on the ancient plains, blowing away the bright day and the thick night, blowing away the stories that grew up in the days, whether bitter or happy. The plain seems wider than before. Weeds grow wildly in the wheat field when you wake up in the field, and the green image in the field is an irresistible desire in people's hearts, without scruples. However, the looming villages scattered on the Yuan Ye are getting thinner and more broken, and the road out of the village twists and turns in the wheat field, getting farther and thinner, and being submerged in the wheat field.

The village is quiet, and occasionally the cough of the old man falls on the empty street, which is worrying. All the adults in the village left, left in the endless wind and went to distant cities to work and make a living. The prosperity of urban growth needs fresh blood to nourish it. These young blood from rural areas are being transported to cities, big and small, bit by bit, too much. The countryside is a little tired, and it seems that the wind will tilt and spread when it blows gently.

After the old man sent his grandson to school, he sat alone in the yard. The uneasy old man has no work to do, and he is at a loss. He can no longer hear the sound of cows, horses and donkeys chewing grass in the stone trough, the fat pigs lying lazily in the pen, and the chickens and ducks he hates muttering and shitting in the yard. He only heard the harsh sound of the wind blowing through the branches. Without the sound of these animals, the farmyard would not be rural and lose the breath of life. The wind comes from far away and blows to unknown places. The wind was so boring that the old man was at a loss, so he opened the opera box and went to the opera house, turning the volume up to the maximum. This play is still the one he loved to listen to, but the old man is listless and always falls asleep while listening.

People in these small villages were dragged into the city by the tide of migrant workers, and they couldn't help themselves. It's a bit sad to say that they are on the edge of the city all the year round and their roots are still in their small village. They are destined to be just passers-by in this city, doing the heaviest physical work and living a humble life like dirt. They have been drained of their youth and sweat by the city and will soon return to their small villages. Their small village will always be as selfless and loving as their mother, and they will always welcome these.

The village is aging, but its vitality is still tenacious. The wind blows all the seasons and the spring trees are green. There are few people and less garbage in the village, and the streets are clean, and there is no sound of chickens and dogs. The idle old man often walks in the wheat field, which has raised his father, son and now grandson. He knows this land too well. It is a part of his life. Sometimes he will take his grandson's hand and stroll into the depths of the wheat field, as if walking in the artistic conception of ancient pastoral poetry. He was intoxicated by the smell of wheat and naturally showed a happy and satisfied look. The old man didn't know that he and his grandson were walking in the wheat field and were photographed by a photographer in the city.

The old man walked on the path in the wheat field. He didn't think so much and didn't realize the beauty of the countryside. He stayed with the countryside that raised him all his life and turned a blind eye. Maybe the old man's own life is numb. When he saw that other people in the small village lived like this, he felt that he should live like this. He used to dig in the soil, but now the land can't be saved, and all the villagers have gone out to work. They work as cattle and horses on the construction site, as a screw on the machine in the capitalist's factory, suffering hardships and supporting their families. He thinks this is the life of the villagers, which is the same as that of the older generation who worked as a long-term laborer in the landlord's house and a capitalist's factory in the city before liberation. It's just that he has some love for his little grandson and doesn't see his parents several times a year. Poor thing.

The wind has been blowing, and the wheat waves on the plain are surging. The old man walking in the field looks so small, like a weed and a wheat. When the wind blows gently, it is natural to be confused and disappear into the wheat field.

The wind is blowing, the wind is blowing, the temperature in the wind is very high, and the wheat will mature when it is hot. Mature wheat exudes wheat fragrance and slowly ripples away in the wind, adding a bit of tranquility and peace to the countryside surrounded by wheat fragrance. Villagers working in factories on urban construction sites smelled it and stopped for a while as if they were drunk. At this time, if you look down from the air, the plain becomes a golden ocean, and the village in the sea of wheat is a green island. The wind blew the golden wheat waves from the four weekly art fairs in the village to the village. The village seemed to be the center of the wheat waves, swaying gently.

The sunset on the wheat field is big and round, and it falls at the end of the wheat field, like falling into the sea. It is as golden as a wheat field, splashing golden wheat water on the plain and being blown away by the wind. It seems to be coated with an ancient golden yellow, and the color is getting heavier and heavier, like a thick layer of melancholy. This kind of sadness is too easy to infect, all over small villages and distant cities, working on construction sites.

When the wheat was about to mature, the old man called his son who worked in the south to collect the wheat and let him go home. In fact, the old man knew that the wheat would be harvested for several days, so he wanted to find an excuse to let his son come back a few days earlier and stay at home for a few more days to spend time with his grandson. When he is old, he becomes more and more attached to the happy family of this family. The son who is far away in the city doesn't understand the old man. He felt that his father was old and began to be afraid of work. He advised his father not to worry about farm work and to go back at once.

The son counted the time, and when the wheat was ripe, he would come back. The son who got home didn't accompany the old man. He made an appointment with several good friends and took his grandson to the restaurant for a drink. They all went home to work outside to collect wheat, and finally got together without saying a word. One said that his boss was cruel this time, and he taught the workers not to show any respect, such as training a dog. Another said that their factory owner was fierce and had five little wives. Every little wife has a building. She scolds the world for injustice, sighs and praises, and goes home after drinking. The old man sat in the yard, watching his son and grandson come in tandem. The direction of my son is exactly the same as when I was young. The old man remembered his own years, went out to drink and led his son, and came back in tandem.

Outside the village, wheat vendors are cleaning up the site and wheat harvesters enter the village. There are more wheat customers with foreign accents on the streets of the village, and there are more vendors selling vegetables and snacks on the streets. At that time, the village was as lively as a festival, and a woman was temporarily hired in a restaurant in the south of the village. Everything is going on on time, and the smell of copper tempts people to share the delicious cake of wheat harvest.

The restless wind seems to be getting smaller, and the mature wheat fields are quiet, but the sun is getting more and more sinister, and the wind is burning your face. The wind blows gently, and the wheat combine enters the ground. When the wind blew again, people in the village went into the fields and a small village began to harvest wheat. The wheat harvester was full of dust and joy, and he was busy collecting money to harvest wheat. He won't cut the wheat for you unless he pays. The wheat harvester is busy loading and pulling it home. No one at home is busy looking for help to go to the restaurant for food. The cart selling wheat is waiting on the ground, and there is one to sell.

Now the wheat harvest is too fast, everything is machine withdrawal, and everything is money transaction. Just two or three days later, just like a flood, the village returned to calm, and warm wind blew through the harvested wheat fields, and wheat stubble was everywhere. The old man walked alone in the field path with his hands behind his back. He walks very slowly. He always feels that he has lost something. Corn is planted under the glittering stubble in the field and will germinate in a few days.

The old man still misses the old days. Now is an important period of summer management. In the past, people were everywhere during the day, carrying hoes and weeding, driving animals and shouting to pull hoes and hoes. In hot weather, crops grow fast and grass grows fast. The villagers are busy with their work and have no time to rest. When corn seedlings are quick to outsmart people, the grass can't grow and the villagers can't breathe. At this time, they can't help but find some jobs nearby to support their families. Now the villagers all use herbicides, but they only plant corn and don't plant grass. There are few people everywhere.

The people in the small village have been liberated from the fields, but they are busier than before, and their lives are more stressful. In the past, animals used to plow fields and pull carts at home were no longer sold, and people in small villages left home to work as money-making machines for contractors and capitalists.

The wind blows from a distant and unknown place, blowing across the fruitful plain. There are several graves not far from the field. There are green weeds on the graves, and some new piles of soil are grayish yellow. Most of these graves are like patches of this land, and there is a scar under each patch. On the road outside the village, several people suddenly appeared, carrying fertilizer bags and bulging luggage, all with a look of mumude, and a man's car came like a gust of wind. These people got into the car.

The bus suddenly slowed down, and a flock of sheep driven by Zhang's silly son in the small village in front blocked the road. The driver honked his horn, and the Zhang family's silly son took the time to swing a whip. The sheep are very obedient and squeeze into the slope on the other side of the road to eat light green fat grass. The bus began to leave, and the villagers who went out to work by car were like a group of animals. The whip of life lashes them mercilessly, but they are numb and feel no pain.

There is one thing that the old people in the village don't know. The photographer who took pictures of him in the wheat field took his photos to the city photography competition, but he didn't expect to win the second prize. In the photo, the old man walks in the wheat field with his little grandson, and his expression of being aloof from the world is praised by experts as a contemporary pastoral and a spiritual home that urbanites yearn for. Commenting on this photo, an expert said: How happy it would be for us to walk hand in hand in the wheat field with our children or lovers. These old people far away from the village don't know. He didn't know that the photos of him walking in the wheat fields hung in the city's photography exhibition hall, which made the artists in this city have many idyllic imaginations.