The author expresses his feelings through the description of the image of rice. Thank you.

Cuckoos are urging sowing, and swallows are working to protect the plowing. On the Yellow River and Purple Road, farmers plow the ancient land into ridges and ditches, organize them into seedling beds as flat as square bricks, and sow rice seeds. . After several spring rains, seedlings can be seen sprouting from the soil in the seedling bed. As the season approaches the threshold of early summer, the field ridges are filled with people planting rice seedlings. Men, women and children of all ages have rolled up their trouser legs and rolled up their sleeves. The sky fell into the paddy field, wetting a few naughty white clouds. The father walked to the edge of the field carrying the handles of rice seedlings stacked like a pagoda, bent down and put down the pole, wiped the sweat on his forehead with his sleeves, lifted the handles and drew a beautiful arc in the air, and the handles " Standing in the paddy field with a bang. The mother grabbed the handle of the seedling, untied the straw tie around her waist, and split it into two. She held half a handful of seedlings with her left hand, and then moved them quickly with her thumb, index finger, and middle finger, and the seedlings were separated one by one. He quickly clamped it with his right hand and thrust it into the paddy field. Mother's left and right hands cooperated extremely well, and the water splashed up by her fingers never stopped when she was planting rice seedlings. In the paddy field where my mother had moved, the green seedlings stood up row by row, neat and well-proportioned, like a green carpet. My mother is a skilled weaver, weaving green brocade. Mother dyed the paddy fields green and white with her blood and sweat. The village is still and the rice is moving, and the vivid rice supports the home with its leaves and colors. Standing on the river embankment at the head of the village and looking far into the distance, the green sky is like a fire burning in the countryside. The green of the seedlings in my hometown is a burning color. It is true that in addition to green, there are red, yellow, green, white, or other colors. Just like the world, it is chaotic, complicated, and unorganized. But for a flaming green that falls from the sky, other colors can be ignored. They are booting, filling, and maturing all over the field, and every step is vigorous. The wind comes one after another, like some refreshing and cool water, moistening the heart of rice... rice gently hides the words he wants to say in his heart, rice quietly hides the details of the dream in his chest . The wind overturned the structure of the rice and blew the plot of the rice. I followed rice's youth all the way and walked slowly in rice's eyes. With rice fields, autumn can take on various forms. The rice matures day by day, and the fragrance of rice fills the air. The wind is blowing the farm work, the curved sickle is shining with silver light, and the bodies of the people harvesting rice are rising and falling. The father bent down, first held a pile of rice in his arms with his strong arms, then put his face into the rice bush, took a deep breath, and then inserted the sickle into the rice bush. The sound of the sickle "swish, swish, swish" passed my ears, and my father was as strong as a rock. The bright white sunlight slipped over my father's shoulder, colliding with transparent sparks on the blade. The rice grains are covered with fragments of sunlight. Rice uses its own fall to lay the foundation for mankind's standing. The rice is separated from its flesh and bones and is divided into rice stubble, straw and rice. The rice grains are transformed into a substance called rice, and the air nourishes human beings and their long history. A grain of rice placed on the palm of my hand can warm my stomach no matter which line it stands on. A grain of rice is the shelter that rice provides to mankind; a grain of rice is a warm luster, and a grain of rice nourishes the human body and soul. Large tracts of rice stubble lie quietly on the river bed of the earth and dream. The rice stalks standing straight and straight, held in autumn's hands, stretched to the farthest point in front of the village and behind the village. Rice grows from bare to green to golden. This is the trajectory followed by all life, and humans are no exception. The mission of rice is not to look natural as it grows, but to nourish the new life of life. This transition between death and rebirth has been indispensable for thousands of years. For this reason, rice is called rice, and one is called thousands of years. 1. Use a concise sentence to describe the theme expressed by the author through the description of the image of rice. 2. The language characteristics of this article. 4. Talk about "the mission of rice is not to dress up naturally during its growth, but to nourish the new life of life." . This transformation between death and rebirth has been indispensable for thousands of years.