Feelings of straw yellow days

In the middle of the village road, the new straw carpet spread smooth color, peaceful place where each foot step, inhaling the smell of straw hometown home dear. In the middle of the village road, the new straw carpet spread smooth color, peaceful place where each foot step, inhaling the smell of straw hometown home dear.

  I am in the middle of the village at the end of the harvest, the legs stretched out in the field. Maybe, grow up from the village, come out from the thin stubble, the yellow straw each time, inhaling the smell of smoke burning lanterns that the countryside lanterns that I still love the same smell of smoke. The white smoke is vague, the table slightly rising from the ground, following the sky. In the middle of the field has been harvested listening to peace, serenity and dreaming how much. There are times on the car to a remote area, my eyes are held alone by the smoke spread on every field, mix the white, the remaining rasp, the black rock alone , clear skies and romantic clouds. The picture is true, lively, sweet.   Straw gentle, gentle spread from the yard to the lane, halo on the village road. The straw is sunny, hong for full sun shine brittle, fragrant to the body. Now in the street, where to find straw and gold in this contest and in it like children of the year. The children gathered rolling, chasing rent but not afraid of falling, afraid of pain. What worries me is that compared to the joy of poetry when they know that there are gentle straws to support, pat as the mother country always caring for the baby.   We buried ourselves in the straw, hearing the aroma of aroma wind winds are still screwed up here is not hurry. We climbed up the heap of straw, rolling down from above. With the hide and seek game, the sticks are the ideal escape place. The moonlit night, the head rested on the soft straw, watching the cloud drift, guessing what the clouds, what shape, what is changing. Only from the simple things around her like, there are clouds of water, grass and trees, yellow straw hovering that old child full of joy, happiness.   The straw is spread in the sunshine, crispy and crispy. With a firm stand in the middle, he started to build straw around. Soon, a tall tall straw was formed, and the roof was covered with wind and rain. The farmer reaches the end of his breath in the red fire, rekindles the warm pot of rice, potato boiled potatoes, new dumplings this afternoon the new kid, now exploded wait for dinner. The mother smoked fire, a smile, peace of mind, contentment. The taller straw means the season is full, not afraid of lack of food, cooking the rainy days. The cows were resting in their cages, as though they were sure that the wind was blowing, there was a golden straw in the cage.   Little chickens follow the mother's feet to find food in the straw scattered, left over three grain grain. Mama mother from the tangerine flea to call the children ran giddy. The cat is lazy to roll out the sun, the yellow branches do not know how boring. She knit the straw mb add a little bit more, clean up the pot of coffee minutes before the black smoke. Just a little straw, her mother lightly rolled up lightly lift the sides of the pot from the hot stove. Suddenly, where around you also have the presence of straw, close, useful, practical.   The child followed his father to burn. Set fire from this end, the fire began to run all over the field. The little girl looked at the stream of smoke. The throat that will one day with the mud, the rain down to incubate heat for each sprout green.   City can give me a picture, the film screen widescreen spread straw. But I could only turn back to the nostalgic rice field through the breezy afternoon. Through the kite chiu chew the wind under the tiny hands, feet to run fading stamping stems. Through the smell of burning copper smoke stray from the suburbs into the city. Through nostalgia filled with. I keep dreaming about the strawberry flavor of the season, old ...