Chicken joke

This National Day holiday, there is no travel and no distance. But I have poetic nostalgia, colorful homesickness and autumn harvest. There is no plan, no arrangement, no worry about traffic jams, and no hurry to eat and stay.

I am wearing a humble camera, like a greedy food.

Our old dog walks leisurely and aimlessly in one village after another, wandering at one rural intersection after another. In the early morning, with the crowing of chickens and dogs and the bleating of cattle and sheep, a rising sun rose slowly from the mountains and sprinkled golden sunshine into the valley. In the evening, my brothers went home with golden corn cobs and colorful clouds. Flaming clouds make autumn look like an oil painting, enriching the countryside and making the holy lake beautiful. You are strong and I am strong, the lakes and mountains are beautiful, and the sunset is lonely in Qi Fei, just like autumn water.

My brothers said that this autumn, it spread from a village called Taoziwan. Look at the golden corn cob, the fiery red pepper skewers, and the hill-like pumpkins that extend from one yard to another. The villagers raised their rakes, made ink with sweat and painted in the yard. Who rendered red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple, and who danced around the sky with colorful exercises? Only my hardworking folks are writing the most beautiful scenery in this autumn. The 80-year-old second aunt is carrying baskets of soybeans, peanuts and sesame seeds, and carefully looks at the autumn yard. The wind blowing from the bamboo forest, with a burst of rich fragrance, touched my body and mind happily and leisurely. A butterfly landed naughtily on my shoulder and flew away gently. I stood in the corn field after the autumn harvest, bathed in the cool autumn wind and the soft and warm sunset.

The autumn wind in my hometown slightly blows half of the lotus pond, some lotus leaves wither and the green ones turn yellow. Of course, I have smelled my brother's ribs and stewed lotus roots. There are several acres of sloping land behind the old house, which straddles the ridge. My parents used to work hard here all year round, day after day, year after year, harvesting meager hopes. I remember how many autumn days, my father would urge me to go home and see the golden corn cob and golden ears of rice. Knowing the news of my coming home, my mother stood in the colorful yard again and again, looking around me, but worried that the fried chicken with green peppers was not as fragrant as last year's chicken. Now the old house is still old, the yard is still old, parents have died for many years, and my sister-in-law repeats her past hopes in this barren land.

The autumn wind is getting colder and the hometown is getting older. Walking in the countryside, there are nostalgia, harvest and sadness. I see that many fields here have been deserted. If we hadn't asked the village cadres for poverty alleviation policies, and if the old people in the village died, many villagers hadn't returned to their hometown for several years. Once children Cleisthenes barked, cows mooed and sheep mooed, and the village where chickens flew and dogs jumped gradually became silent. A sad tear slowly oozed from the corner of my eye. An old cow in the elder sister's house slowly nibbled the hay on the ridge, as if all this loneliness and melancholy had nothing to do with it. It flapped its nose left and right, wagged its tail, and slowly moved its four hooves, looking for a piece of hay rustling in autumn. This piece of hay used to be fertile soil for its cultivation, and it also carried the dreams and hopes of an old cow.

Autumn is getting deeper and the autumn wind is getting cooler. Flocks of geese flew from distant places, crossed the mountains, and sang songs all the way to distant places, sowing sadness and joy in the passionate maple forest.

Maple forest like fire, in the afterglow of sunset, bit by bit prosperity ends in peace. ...

The autumn wind tore open my dusty memory, and only that autumn more than ten years ago, the sky was blue, the white clouds were long and the autumn wind was cool. Father and neighbor Feng Jiagan talked about the autumn harvest while telling jokes. One hoe went down and another hoe went down, and the sweet potatoes piled up like a hill. When my father trembled and carried a car full of sweet potatoes, I suddenly found my father's bronzed face, like birch bark criss-crossing in the sunset, getting darker and darker. On one occasion, the powerful steps trembled even more in the lining of the pestle. When my mother picked up sweet potatoes in the autumn wind, her cough became more and more urgent. ...

Mother was ill and left her father and children who loved her deeply. A few years later, my father also left his hometown and went to a foreign country. My parents were buried on a quiet hill in the corner of this land, and the autumn wind blew from the distant sky, blowing all over my parents' life.

The maple leaves turn red and the autumn wind turns cold. On the day of sending cold clothes on October 1 every year, I will go back to my hometown and walk up this hill in the bleak autumn leaves to pay homage to my parents who have worked hard all their lives. I will kneel on my knees and look at my parents' tombstones with wet eyes and reverence. I will look at the desolate land hopefully, fall silent and let my thoughts fly in the wilderness of my hometown in autumn.

Feel the autumn in my hometown and let you know what is openness and what is openness. What should go will eventually go, and what should come will eventually come. When prosperity is exhausted, it will eventually be calm. Winter has passed, and it is spring again. More indifferent, less fame and fortune, more true feelings, less worldly. Walking in my hometown of Shan Ye, let the leisurely mountain breeze in Yuan Ye wash away our illusory hearts, and let the beautiful autumn scenery in my hometown enrich our body and mind.