All the trees are painted with dots, only the willow trees are painted with lines.

Other trees always have flowers or fruits, only willows, and some useless white catkins are scattered blankly.

Other trees are all messages with tight passwords, only willows are loose knots.

Other trees are suitable for flower arrangement or decoration, and only willow trees are suitable for folding willows in Baling to bid farewell.

Willow is out of date, willow is getting old, and willow has no practical value-except beauty.

Willow is not a tree of craftsmen, but a tree of poets and lovers. There are fewer and fewer willows. Every time I see a willow tree, I hold my breath nervously-I'm afraid I'll forget it one day. I'm afraid that one day when I read Bai Juyi's Where to Think Before Spring, Wicker Can't Mention to the King of Wei or Wei Zhuang's Wandering Willow, I will also look it up in the dictionary.

Willow can never make a forest, and it is destined to be a plant on the shore. However, it is useless to look up some things in the dictionary. How can we understand the willow in Su Causeway and sort out the spring breeze in the south of the Yangtze River in February? How beautiful the willow in Suidi is, just like a misty jade curtain.

Wicker stripes are used to reaching into the water and winding the quiet clouds and moonlight in the water. It often catches a complete water moon skillfully, which is much more clever than Li Bai.

There are countless leaf buds called "green eyes" hidden on the soft strips of spring willow. When those eyes are happy, they spit out several veins of green leaves. A few days later, all the green eyes like wheat grains opened.

Some people suspect that there are gems under the roots of rainbows, but I always suspect that there are emeralds under the roots of willows-otherwise, where can willows absorb so much pure green?

Days of wearing windbreakers

Every time I put on a windbreaker, I feel very strange. I don't know why, especially when I just fastened my belt, I always wonder if I am going to wander.

When I put on my windbreaker, I only felt that the road ahead was stormy, and there was an unknown road in Wan Li waiting outside the alley. I have a feeling of endless misty rain about my life.

The day you wear a windbreaker should be windy, whether you are new here and not used to the gentle spring breeze or the autumn wind with a steep chill after the green ebb tide. The wind calls you in the clouds, and the wind calls you through Chiba with a bleak vibrato. The day of wearing a windbreaker will always be.

There is no doubt that it is dim, but it is also unreasonably magnificent:

Wearing a trench coat, it seems that there should be a story to start.

There will be wind in the south of the Yangtze River, blowing green willow curtains on both sides. ...

There is bound to be a wind like the streamer in the old play, gently surrounding11100,000 square kilometers of begonia leaves.

The wind will blow like a song and a flute in Los Angeles overnight.

I have read the white clouds of Emperor Gaozu, the peonies of Emperor Xuanzong of Tang Dynasty, and the people of Lu Fangweng's third year. The wind has also read your beautiful hair today. You are wearing a windbreaker and walking in the wind through the ages.

Is the wind the length of heaven and earth? Does the wind disturb people when large pieces of blood are surging?

The wind swelled the lapel of the windbreaker, and the wind messed up the hem of the windbreaker and brushed my leg. I look around, life is so vast, I think there is an infinite horizon waiting.

Nostalgia in spring

Spring must be like this: from the green hills, a handful of snow can no longer be held, and with a splash, a cold face becomes a painted face. A song is sung from the clouds to the foothills, from the foothills to the low and desolate villages, to the hedgerows, to the yellow webbed of a duckling, and to the soft and soluble spring mud.

So charming, so sensitive, but so muddy and endless. A thunder can make clouds cry all over the sky for no reason, and a cuckoo cry can make a city full of azaleas. When a gust of wind comes, every willow sings a white, vain, inexplicable and uninvited fly. Every fly is a semicolon of a willow. Anyway, spring is so unreasonable and illogical, but it can still make people calm.

Spring must be like this: the withered stems full of dark leaves and flowers cling to an old root, and the roof beams of thousands of families in the north are crushed by the wind and snow, gently supporting a small empty nest. Then, suddenly, one day, peach blossoms captured the water profiles of all the mountain villages. Willow has taken control of the royal ditch and the folk river head-spring is like a clear-cut Julian Waghann, and the group has been looking forward to prayer and beauty for a long time.

As for the name of spring, there must have been such a story: before the Book of Songs, before the Historical Records and before the characterization of Cang Xie, a lamb suddenly felt sweaty when eating grass, a child suddenly felt soaring when flying a kite, and his legs suffering from wind pain suddenly felt comfortable. Qian Qian's hands were placed on the banks and banks of the stream.

Birds can start measuring the sky again. Some are responsible for measuring the blue of the sky, some are responsible for measuring the transparency of the sky, and some are responsible for measuring the height and depth of the sky with those wings. Not all birds are excellent mathematicians. They chattered and counted, looked around, and finally dared not publish statistics.

As for all the flowers, they have been given to the butterfly to count. Give all the pistils to the bees for cataloging. All the trees were ruined by the wind. Leave the wind to the old wind chimes in front of the eaves to remember and inquire one by one.

Spring must be like this, or, somewhere, is it still like this? Through the smoky black forest, I want to visit the spring wandering in the distant years.

Street trees in Zhang Xiaofeng

We are a row of trees, standing in the dust of the city.

Many friends say we shouldn't stand here. In fact, we know this better than anyone. Our home is on the mountain, in the dark virgin forest. And we actually stand here, standing on the roadside of these two lanes, which is undoubtedly a kind of degeneration. Our companions are all sucking dew and playing with cool clouds. What about us? As you can see, our only decoration is a shaking ash.

Yes, our fate has been arranged. In this industrial city full of cars and chimneys, our existence is just a sad ornament. But you can save your sympathy, because this fate is actually our own choice-otherwise, we won't have to grow green leaves frequently in spring and give people shade in summer. The sacred cause is always painful, but only this kind of pain can give us depth.

As night falls, the whole city is full of complicated strings and hurried flutes, all red lights and green wine. And we are in silence, we are in the dark, we are in the loneliness that is not understood. However, we gritted our teeth hard until the flag of the morning glow, Ran Ran, rose and we stood in a row to pay tribute-in any case, someone in our city must meet the sun! If no one else greets us, we will be responsible for welcoming the light.

At this time, perhaps an early child came over and greedily breathed fresh and clean air. This is our proudest moment. Yes, maybe everyone has long been accustomed to filth, but we still stubbornly create a sense of freshness that is not cherished.

Maybe we are happiest when it rains. The news that the rain brought to our old friends brought us back to the carefree old forest in our imagination. We cried in the rain, and we always loved life there-even though we gave it up.

Standing in the dust of the city, we are a sad and happy tree.

The Fear of Life by Zhang Xiaofeng.

It was the longest afternoon in summer, by a lake in Indiana. At first, I sat reading casually, and suddenly I found some white fibers floating around the lake, like cotton, some floating on the grass and some floating into the lake. I didn't care too much at that time, but it was brought by the accidental wind.

However, gradually, I found the situation simply surprising. A few hours later, the trees are still unconsciously sending those small clouds, as if they were an infinite cloud bank. The whole afternoon, the whole night, the sky is full of that kind of thing. The situation the next day was exactly the same, and I was surprised and shocked.

In fact, when I was in primary school, I knew that there was a kind of seed that was planted by wind-blown fibers. But I only know the answer to a test question. I really saw it in those days, and what I felt wholeheartedly was an admiration, an unspeakable awe. I almost met life for the first time-although it was a plant.

I feel that the seeds like clouds collide strongly with something in my heart, and I can't help but be moved by the luxury, luxury and cost-free investment of life. Perhaps only one seed, after wandering day and night, is enough to make a tree, but the creator is willing to do such a thrilling feat.

When I meditate, I still think of that lovely lake. I don't know which seed on the lake has become a small tree. At least, I know one has grown up. That seed once met a piece of land, and in the heart valley of a passerby, it became overcast and taught her how to fear life.