rain

The sky is rainy and crisp, and the grass is close to the sky. The water is bright and sunny, and the mountains are empty and rainy.

It’s raining, the rain hits the eaves, oh, it’s like tears flowing down, like water flowing down the faucet.

The spring rain has dyed the earth green, and the soft spring breeze has warmed the river.

The bamboo forest under the garden rustles with the wind, the bamboo leaves are rolling with crystal clear water drops, the dry land is moistened and protected by the rain, the land smiles happily, and the land is originally dark yellow and the spiritless color changes. It’s black and bright, the bamboo giggles, the silver bell-like sound, the breeze bursts. On the stone chair, I printed the first footprint of spring on the soft land.

I am wearing a small umbrella, on the gravel road, splashing a layer of white rain and fog, like a white gauze, I walked in the rain and fog. The rain on the ground is as transparent as a mirror. Listening to the sound of rustling when the rain slams the broad leaves of the big leaf poplar or the phoenix tree, the gravel road becomes slippery and interesting. I walk carefully, with green grass on both sides. From time to time, the dog barked, the grass was covered with dewdrops, and they seemed to be very satisfied with the clothes that fell from the sky. The breeze came, they shook their bodies with full, gemstones, surrounded by small trees. The tree, snuggling on both sides.

Wet weather, wet mood, even thoughts are wet, and thoughts are as lingering as drizzle, no end, no end. Outside the window, the rain hits the window, there is no rhythm, no melody, but it is nice, there is a kind of uncomfortable feeling of melody, like knocking on the piano, popping up a purple dream.

The rain stopped. In the sky, I heard the sound of the little bird faintly. After the rain, everything is so fresh. The grass is greener and the tree is more beautiful. The tree full of olives is more green.

Good rain knows the season, when spring is here. Sneaked into the night wind, moisten things silently. The sound of the rain is still ringing, like my real heartbeat...

Third day: Zheng Yurong