A dead bird (external chapter)
Huangfang
A bird suddenly fell on the window frame, through the balcony glass, and I greeted him with a not-standard whistle. Maybe my behavior was a bit abrupt. It stretched its wings lightly and flew away after a turn. It only left a few chirpings, which quickly melted into the air.
birds are the happiest carrier of life in life. The best thing to hear is the sound of birds in nature. Being able to hear such a spiritual sound is a very enjoyable thing in the world. And hearing the birds cry reminds me of a bird I had never seen before but was always looking for.
The years passed, and when I was still wet with tears for the stories in the book, the innocent corners of my eyes, the appearance of a bird plucked the strings that no one cares about. It was dawn, and a bird cut through the quiet sky, flew past my window, circled the ridge, and then kept calling on the tall poplar tree on the south side of the house.
Is that the blue bird flying out of Li Shangyin " Untitled "? Or is it the white bird flying out of Tagore " Bird Collection "? I was sure that I was much more sensitive at that time than now. I can judge the location and flight route based on the sound of a bird, and imagine how smooth the beautiful feathers are, and how gentle the exposed beak tongue is.
I always wake up on time the moment it appears, or rather, the moment I was expecting it happened to come. No matter it is sunny or rainy, it will never be postponed. It seems that there was an invitation and tacit understanding, and even thinks it exists for me.
I don’t know which day the bird did not fly past my window, circled the ridge, and fell on the poplar tree on the south side of the house and kept calling. Where will it fly? Is he affair with him? Or unfortunately freeze to death? starve? Was killed by someone with a slingshot? Or are you killed by illness?
Other birds fly around, some call monotonously, and some call in a gentle manner, but none of them are the same. I didn't wait for the bird. The poplar tree was cut down by everyone because it blocked the sunshine of the next house. The birds that were once full of branches instantly turned into a mournful sound. My dream is in chaos.
I moved there later. There are no tall poplar trees in the center of the town, and I planted some cheap flowers and plants on the roof. Sometimes when I wake up, I occasionally hear three or two intermittent bird calls. Is that the bird I have been looking for? I know that's not.
Maybe, the bird has really died long ago. The feathers I have never seen and the familiar voices are buried in that season when it has long been dead.
an old book
When warm fingers reunite with the fingerprint of death
rows of burying the shadow of youth and dreams
also like the separation of spring grass and the sun
——Inscription
The dim lights , the most suitable thing to do is to put a book by the pillow. For a person who deals with books, memory is like an old book. He has read it many times, then it is sealed up and forgotten in a corner by time.
brush away the spider silk and dust, and the yellow and moldy pages are no longer as fragrant as the quiet ink of the past. Some long-lost words have been ed into small holes by silver -clothed fish insects . Perhaps, in the most moving sentences, there are still mottled tears that accidentally dripped.
The cricket , the corner of the wall, who always refuses to meet, is still playing the intoxicating piano? Are the wanton mountain flowers still blooming in the glass bottle on the desk? I spent several dusks to draw. It was like a grain of dust and sand, walking into the Sahara Desert with the nostalgia of my previous life, isn't the girl who is still looking deep on the wall?
haven't read for many years, and the books that have been with you have been with you have gradually disappeared, and I don't know where. The chanting under the eaves has fallen with orange-yellow hand-woven wind chimes. The distant and desolate memory has become a black butterfly sandwiched in old books, the black butterfly of the somewhat rash season.
Reading an old book can awaken the memories of life that have been sleeping for many years. Although the person reflected in the peach blossoms no longer smiled as sweetly as a flower, the sweet and sad bamboo flute no longer blew a whimpering song in the twilight.
Author Profile
Huang Fang, a native of Huangshi, Hubei, a Chinese teacher in primary and secondary schools, and a member of Hubei Couplet Society. He has published works such as prose and poetry on Sichuan Literature Network, Contemporary Chinese Poetry, Western Literature and Art and other literary media platforms. He has won the special prize in the poetry group of the Chinese Prose Network Essay Competition.
