Sunlight becomes transparent in the afternoon, winding forward. Many dim shallow time in a dim halo gradually clear. A suitable moment for memory, memory began to recover-
Summer of childhood is a slow and fantastic film. The moving voices come and go in my early morning dreams: the tranquil stone road echoes the footsteps of pedestrians in a hurry, mixed with the splashing of water, empty and abrupt; under the eaves there is the sound of birds flapping their wings, the whirling wind stirs the sleeping leaves, the green leaves swaying and the sound of sand. From one end of the road to the other, bicycle bells rang as long as Scottish bagpipes. Occasionally, the pure tone of the piano drifted by, and the melody flowed through, rendering those years that had not fallen.
At that time, I was a wind-loving child. I often stand on the narrow balcony, listening to the wind in the dim and dim morning light. The morning wind is as cool as mint and transparent as glaze. The wind blows in all directions, taking away the water vapor from the railings, and the droplets, big and small, begin to escape and evaporate. The sunshine, reflected by water droplets, shows a colorful luster, like a beautiful brocade. Leaves are covered with a thin layer of light fog, above the glittering dew slowly moving in the wind, scouring the excess dust, dark green veins are visible.
Temperature has risen sharply, the air is so hot that people suffocate, the cement pavement is almost cracked, and the sunshine is shining on the white flowers. Summer afternoons are melancholy and impetuous: half of the city is hidden in the shadows of trees, and cicadas are heard from the flourishing leaves like the constant murmur of the radio.
The wind in nature has become thick and stagnant, and the only cool wind comes from the fans at home. I always fall asleep in this long afternoon, unconsciously. In my dream, I will encounter the animals in fairy tale books – smart foxes, witty squirrels, brave seagulls, clever reindeer, and kind spider Charlotte. They make the original pale and monotonous dreams beautiful like exquisite butterfly specimens. When I wake up, I often see the sun shining through the screens, the air dust flying, the petals dipped in the sunshine, like a valley orchid.
It’s a child, carefree. So a lot of people, regardless of the heat, took white paper downstairs to fold a paper plane, and finally flew higher and farther than anyone else. Paper airplane carries children’s simple dreams. After crossing a smooth arc in the air, it falls into a vast expanse of white on the ground. The instant beauty becomes a touching thing that can not be told when hanging on. And children’s laughter is a late monsoon, spreading constantly, and finally scattered in the depths of time. Tired, they rest by the trees. The dark green trees emit the spicy smell of summer. The thick leaves cover the whole sky.
Later, I wonder who discovered the beauty of the sky at dusk. So evening has become a beautiful time. We will gather together and quietly appreciate the bleak scene at dusk: the sky floating with purple thin clouds, gorgeous as the scenery in oil paintings; the sunset gradually sinking, white pigeon back to the sunset, standing on the roof, looking, feathers plated golden; light and shadow harmony, the city left its most perfect silhouette of the day. The wind flowing in nature began to return, and I stood in the wind like a devout believer, as if a miracle would happen, looking at the lights of each house in ecstasy, until the twilight four in reluctance to leave.
Summer nights come quietly, and disappear the ambiguity of the day, showing a deep and peaceful face. The waste heat hasn’t dissipated yet, but the gusts of cool wind still make people feel refreshing and comfortable. Many people take a PU fan to enjoy the cool in the open air, and talk about some household trifles with each other. The moon appears and disappears between the beautiful lines of trees, and the moonlight falls quietly, making people’s faces dim and serene. Stars are pale yellow distant lights scattered in the sky, while fireflies are the smallest lights near the ground, flashing under the dusk street lights and hiding in the background of the night. Fortunately, on a clear night, I can see a broad Galaxy crossing the sky. The sky is as vast as an epic, while I look up at the sky, watch the mysterious Tianhe River and listen to my mother’s old legends.
Many summers have been swept away like snow. Many past events have been labeled by years, become specimens, memories and fleeting years.
Gradually understand, many times, happiness is a one-way street, passing without consciousness, and looking back, but found that only looking forward, can never return along the way. Lost, blank, sad. Who remembers who in whose memory, who memorizes who with whose story, who leaves whose legend to whom.
No one shows any interest in. But I still like to listen to the wind when it is windy, like many years ago, as if back to the past. Think of a poem once read: “Who has seen the wind? You haven’t. I haven’t seen it. But when the tree nods and bows, it’s the wind. And those summer blown by the wind, is it not the wind’s whereabouts? But now they are shining amber after amber, left in the eternal back garden of our hearts…