There are beautiful articles about the weather (enough fragments, not less than 120 words) describing rain, snow, wind and frost, etc. ......

The last group of pigeons drew a circle with a faint flute in the breeze and disappeared. Maybe I mistook the gloomy and cold sky for night, or I had a premonition that the wind and rain were coming, so I flew back to my warm wooden house too early.

A few days of sunshine sprinkled a touch of light green on the wicker, which was covered with dust and gaunt and needed washing. There are also cracked soil and roots that have long been looking forward to rain. Raindrop hesitated.

I miss the thunder and rain in my hometown. The rumble of powerful fighting echoed in the valley, as if the buds of spring were shaken off from the frozen soil, awakened and angered. The gentle rain like fine grass caressed it with warm hands, making it overgrown with oily green branches and leaves and blooming red flowers. These homesickness haunt me like homesickness. The climate in my heart is as short of rain as this northern continent. A gentle tear in my dry eyes, like the hesitant rain in this gloomy sky, will not fall for a long time.

White ducks seem to be a little fidgety, too. Their anxious cries echo in the impure urban rivers. Some rowed slowly and tirelessly like boats, while others hung their long necks upside down in the water. The red webbed toes stretched out behind his tail and kept flapping the water to support his balance. I don't know whether to look for subtle food at the bottom of the ditch or to crave the cold in deep water.

Several of them have landed. Take a walk under the willow tree to relax the fatigue of boating. Then stand unsteadily, carefully comb their white feathers with their mouths, occasionally shake their bodies or spread their wide wings to let water drip between the feathers. One has been decorated, bent its neck behind its back, hid its long red mouth in its wings, and quietly closed its small black eyes between its white hairs, as if preparing for sleep. Poor little animal, do you dream like this?

I remember the people who put ducklings in my hometown. A flock of goose-yellow ducklings roamed the stream. The water is shallow, the grass is lush on both sides, and the shepherd has a long bamboo pole in his hand. How happy is his small team, and how tame is it to follow his club head across the hillside of Shan Ye? As night falls, a bamboo shed like a tent is erected on the ground, which is his home. But how far is this imagination? In this dusty country, I just want to hear the rain on the leaves. A little cool rain drops into my haggard dream, and it may grow into a round of shade to cover myself.

I looked up. There is a gray fog curtain hanging in the sky, and some cold fragments fall on my face. A falcon in the distance seems to be angry at the heavy sky. Its flat wings fell from the sky motionless, almost touching the mound on the other side of the river ditch, but it fluttered its wings and made a fierce noise. I was amazed at its huge wings, and I saw the gray feathers between its ribs. Then I heard its powerful voice, like a huge heart crying, or looking for a partner in the dark.

However, the rain did not come.

I saw this short article last summer, which should be a beautiful article describing the weather.