(Text / cherry cold water) (a) season, in the branches overlooking.October, with the harvest message, frantically rushed headlong into the arms of autumn. The sun was shining brightly, eyes stinging thorn.Cicadas, hiding in the dense woods, desperately screaming.Cuckoo singing, leaf through the forest, the sound heard, landed farmer’s heart.Gurgling river, singing cheerful songs, toward the unknown distance away.Vegetation, already soaring, exudes a mature taste, in the sun, in the wind, frantically twisting the waist, at another village grew into a landscape. Wilderness, calling, shouting.Village, boiling up in the quiet. In October, the village is busy most of the day.Old and young, men, woman, are in the fields, work with, reaping.Sounds, laughter, cries, threshing sound, the sound intertwined, played the sounds of nature’s most beautiful villages. Paddy fields, rice into pieces, surrounded, shouting.Golden color, the moment in the eyes of the farmers burn, burn into a force, a force for harvest.They sway the sweat, the harvest is joy.They will be deeply integrated into the back of this piece of landscape, in the river of time, the strokes, strong and powerfully sketched a picture of part of the cultivator. A grain like a pyramid, drunk, with protruding belly up, in the field, tightly packed together rickety.This is a sea, the flow of the sea.Golden ears of corn, surrounded, flowing, rolling in the fields, into the blood of each farmer’s flowing into the words of the old poems, ancient, who is singing “hoe Wo day when afternoon, sweat Wo soil.Who knows dishes on the menu, A Journey.”Listen, the harvest of the field has been played music.That worker, burst out from the bones, soul shouting.Look, round after round figure, contaminated with the world’s most pure fireworks, boiling between heaven and earth, run around, engraved into a timeless picture. Country road, fine.Weeds, clusters grow freely.Unknown flowers, to uphold the chic open, open into a landscape, cocked his head, looked just keep this piece of wilderness countryside. The moon, move the split step, move slowly walked toward the hills.The sun, rubbed his eyes, that side of the mountain, around the corner.Rooster, raised head, tear the throat, exclaimed.They fluttering excitedly in front of that ray of dim dawn hill, shouting.Village dog, issued a “bark” sound Mengyi Ban, it seems that the owner left Youzi meal of delicious piece of bone in children aftertaste. Village, woke up. Grunt a man got up, still in a dream against the woman shouted, played, taking advantage of good weather, and quickly rush in the harvest of rice.A “revenue” word, so coming into the woman’s dream.A clever woman, woke up. Turn on the lights, the room instantly brightened up.Mountain village, one, two.Invariably bright, under open sky, a little like a firefly, the faint light glowing. Men lug buckets, the last ray of moonlight dressed, go out.He threw a bucket, comfortably enjoying the cool breeze.Old dog under the eaves, heard the sound, suddenly jumped up, tail wagging like a fan, directed at the man of the house “bark” or two, and then, turn tail, Hula disappeared in a small way. A woman came to the kitchen house, caught a few dry pine end child, to plug a hole kitchen, took out a lighter, igniting the fire, then stuffed a few pieces of wood, one off the stove, the fire on the “hula” look, burning up stand up.Black smoke along the chimney, straight Upward. Village, in the dance of smoke after another, the opened a new day. (B) men lug water back.His hair, covered with small water collections of grain, pole, in the shoulder rhythmic issued a “creak, creak” sound.Man poured the water into the tank, the water in the tank dangling, waves surging. Mud tank is paste, a few years since surrounded cylinder has played moss, pinch summarized, inconspicuous corner long, freely grow, deserted. There are two big pot on the stove, close to the inside of a large pot, already cooked food for pigs.Out of a big pot, a woman is turned shoveling potatoes, mayonnaise smoke yo up channeling, channeling fumes four, poured water down the pot “thorn friends” a sound, water oil Pearl merrily everywhere with, dancing.After a little while, the water was opened, a woman threw the noodles to the pot, stirring with chopsticks a few.Water has opened a two-fold, the woman grabbed neatly diced green onion children’s menu board, a throw into the pot, breakfast just fine. Man Picking Up, while eating, she walked to the yard.In this case, the outside has gleaming.Distant paddy fields, looming in his eyes, he looked at the sky, then at the edge of a field, hula eat a few bites of noodles, thought to myself, taking advantage of the weather, too quickly to recover the rice, dried, put into warehouse in. Pot boil water on the stove has been opened, the man grabbed a handful of tea, lost in, covered with lid.Tea in boiling water, gracefully turned over the body, stretch the leaves, tea taste, a little bit of penetration in boiling water, a ray of tea fragrance, along teapot mouth, blow-out, and soon vanish into thin air. Remove sickle man wall, with the thumb on the blade gently wipe a few.”Yes,” the man himself, his face showing a satisfied smile.Returned harvesting last night, ate, showered, dressed in a man on the moon, crouched in the yard grinding sickle.Saber-rattling, he repeatedly tried blade until the cutting edge of the hole re-rolled flat, bright, sharp, and he was dragging a tired, she climbed into bed.In the dream, into a piece of rice into his open mouth laugh, he satisfied to hit it with his mouth open, smiling.Men from the rope under the eaves to remove a veil, a shoulder to ride, bring a kettle, take on a sickle, throw off the pace, and walked toward the field.Is used to wipe the veil, the veil is very old, the surface played a lot of furry little ball, from the beginning of the harvest does not know how much soiled with sweat.Last night, a man in the yard when the Brothers, the woman began to wash the veil, marked saponins, foam children wash away the smell of sweat, it does not, remaining with the fragrance of saponins on veil. Woman carrying her hogwash go to a barn, a pig footsteps, called to open downtown in the circle, and whining, which makes door ringing, prompting the woman burst curse, death, and broke the door, Ming put your child to eat stew. Hey finished pig, a woman will eat a bowl to collect the pot, remove the sickle on the wall, go out.A door lock, remove the veil from the rope, to take a shoulder, on its way around the field.At this time, the sun has been exposed half of his face, his eyes open, hiding in the mountains, secretly looked villages.Wind, floated fragrance of rice, grains mixed with small water collections, with mature taste, walk around in the air. (C) fields, the wind blows, into a piece of rice, waving arms, whispering. Men looking for a cool place children, put away the kettle.O the villagers had already cut a few rice stubble, and saw him, shouted, “Good morning ah!””Yes!Take advantage of the good weather, rush in the harvest.”Men should be the, bent down, and instantly flooded across the fields, only to see the paddy crop stubble shorter, only to hear, sickle sharp voice cut through the rice straw. A moment later, a woman came, quietly began the harvest began.Sky is already bright, sun leapt up the hill, smiling, looking at. There are odd jobs in the village, met the harvest season in strong young man came to day laborers.Bring the first line of the rice harvest, wages by the day, much money, but money to live, not in arrears, counted cost-effective, but some bitter job.At this festival, sun poisoning, rice leaf suffer in body, perspiration, really 不是滋味儿.However, the daily necessities of life, they will be so tired of life’s sweet but also with. Please come women workers, some of them carrying wooden board barrel, some carrying tarpaulins, some carrying threshing.Threshing is made of bamboo, a square, a one of the bamboo pieces of bamboo tied together, grain dolphin is jumping from the top of barns. Workers found a relatively smooth terrain of the children, support from the threshing items.A man with a veil to wipe sweat from his forehead a bit, cheap cigarettes from his pocket and handed it to the workers, shouting, come, brothers, do not worry, the first cigarette, take a rest. The workers took the cigarette, lit, lit up like life in general, smoke rings Da Zhezhuan children in the wind, seemed to take away all the tiredness.They stood in the field, gaze shuttle, calculated with, probably how long it takes, these can be harvested millet. Boiling the entire village.Valley play sound after another, like a ballad, echoed in the village.This wilderness is the most simple sound, which is the most powerful voice of the workers, like the pulse beating, shouting like a soul. Grains was put into a basket, they are locked in an embrace, curiously, breathing, whisper.No wind, the sun, burning in shining on the earth.Numerous sweat fly it in the soil, hit a section of country road.Coming and going, man, woman, old, young, without a stop in.Pick millet, meal, bottled water, clamoring, clamoring, clamor. Like most birds this season.They circled over the rice fields, looking, happy, looking for the most full, most sweet grain.Identify the target, leaned over, inciting wings, “hula” look, one full of grain had entered the belly of the birds.Gung wow twice frog from time to time, it insisted belly full of white belly, look for a cool place children, eyes and looked around, listened carefully to the rice fields of movement. Woman has the old dog, on the ridge, tongue sticking out, sometimes sitting around, sometimes moving back and forth with the pace, as if to ask, the owner, Shashi Hou can go back ah! (D) the sun fast work, and it took advantage of the moment people do not pay attention, brisk walking a few steps toward the hillside. Man straight from the already sore back, looked up and saw the sun has half of his face hidden in the other side of the mountain, only to reveal a sly smile.Threshing sound, quietly fall down.Millet farmer began to Luokuang Li loaded, packed to the brim, bending the pole, bending the man’s waist, a paved generations yet another pyrotechnic years generations of farmer. Moon, dragging slowly from wearing veil. In the moonlight, the farmer still busy.The pace of some of them, lug millet, step by step, walked rhythm, in a small way depresses the unique symbol of a string of theirs.Some of them in the pile of straw, put up a “pillar” in the ground, the so-called pillars, a tree is cut down the size of the arm, picked off the branches, then dig a hole, will set up.Straw is already tied up, farmer around the pole, a circular shape, a pile to another pile oxalyl stacked together around the pole, a tower folded appearance. ”Rice said floral harvest, listening to the frogs.”At this time, the frog and ultimately, to come along for the ride, noisy with them, cried, cried, in the fields, jumping merrily.Night has become their stage. Farmer dressed in moonlight, entered the room.Door creaks shut the.They comfortably a bath, to remove a fatigue carelessly ate, then looked harvest dreams, sleep. Outside, the moonlight is strong.The wilderness, the wind gently blowing, with a farmer’s dream, beyond the rice fields, across the hills, gurgling cross that river, in the footsteps of time, the constantly changing appearance. Frogs still cried, but has been quiet village.Moonlight gently stroked the village, the village slept, quietly slept, looked sweet dream.