One morning the morning glory told its secret to another; the other passed it on to the other; and all the morning glory bloomed on the hedge, and hung pink trumpets on its shoulders. That small horn is light pink, or light purple, color changes gradually by the bottom outwards along, deep also does not pass shallow violet, simple but noble, as if the skirt of girl's, skirt bottom what is caught is not spring light, it is autumn color, that autumn color is the precipitation of air and sunlight, it is the smile with a little bit charm in melancholy. Smile is its form, base son is melancholy however, languid is lazy, xiao depart of, charming be like lipstick, let this melancholy clever rise immediately, be not apt mechanical. Morning sun has just become thin, cool, they sensed, fence flower under the two thin, such as the beauty of autumn grass, has become a weak yellow, gradually fall over, is with the charm of the lady of a certain age, in the set off of morning glory, no more vague and don't come, scribble their early heard whispers of morning glory in the night, they know the secret, morning glory has been high on the shelves the horn on the head, they will be announced to the whole village: autumn is coming. I heard them in the morning. I hear those shallow purple or pink small horn at me opened his mouth, and one night, they are so alike all open, I put the ears, and posted on the little flower like a horn, the morning dew wash my face tiredness and blatant ears filled with the whole summer, they stick a small horn on my ears quietly told me that autumn is coming. The hairy buds, like newborn arms, tickled shyly in my ears and I heard them whisper that autumn was coming. Autumn is here. Oh, autumn is here. I straightened up, and listened to the wild air; I heard the cool air, the little cool air, thin and thin; the humidity and humidity of the summer air were slipping away, and the sky grew more and more blue. I hear the yellow of the crops and weeds in the fields, the rising and falling of a butterfly, the vigorous bounce of a grasshopper on the yellowish leaves of grass, and the beat of the chirping of the cricket that stirs the heart out of the music of sorrowful love. I heard the sound of leaves falling in the woods behind the village, broad and gentle poplar leaves fluttering in the air, a dry branch with dried cicadas straight down the soil, thin wings like glass; I heard the sparrow chattering in the eaves. It picked up the first light of the morning and hid it in its nest. I heard the wild chrysanthemums in the corner of the yard pushing open the little orange blossoms, which were as thin as the stars among the green leaves, and crowded and crowded together in great Numbers -- I heard, I all heard, I stood in the yard, I heard the autumn color, I heard the autumn fragrance, I heard the autumn mood. I will go to my field again, looking for the sickle which was lost last year in autumn. I will throw it to the ground after harvesting last year's crop. I want to see the creatures in my field. Do they hear the fall? I want to tell them, autumn is coming, let them prepare for the winter, I would like to I do a captive crops the field the grasshopper said goodbye to those who spring from the soil to drill out in my pastoral jumping a lot of time in the same boat, I never drive them, they accompany my crops had a spring and a whole summer, I have to tell them, autumn is coming, I would like to thank them; I want to bean in the middle of the the a little vole express my greetings, I know, a summer they had four cute furry child, I used to refer to the book of songs as they took out the four cute name, that time I didn't not bashful disturb them, now, in the fall, I'm going to see if they are ready for the winter food? They are my guests, and I must see their granaries, or else I shall not sleep well all winter long. I also want to tell the brokenhearted of the crickets, I remember the last time I came to the pastoral, sitting in the field to rest, it proposed a guitar kept beside me playing, playing a song lovelorn, this handsome young guy, how I afraid it got stuck in the mire of love cannot extricate oneself, I want to invite it come to my home, "October crickets in my bed", there will be a warm winter let him heartache; I'll look for the drab hare, and if I can find him, I'll make a solemn apology to him for chasing him away with a dog in the summer. I would also like to express my gratitude to the earth of the field, which has nourished the food for me, brought to my full body and hot passion, and given me the feelings of compassion and compassion for all things and the thought of looking up to all things. I will finally go to the ridge of the field, leave a few footprints, let my bare feet across my garden, and leave them a winter memory, and then, when I hear the coming of spring, the footprints are filled with melted snow ice water, ripples into the joy of reunion. Listen, stop the work, listen to this autumn. It is a storehouse of life, a storehouse of sound, where reeds turn yellow, autumn fruits fall to the ground, wild chrysanthemums bloom, the delicate flowers flourish and warm, and here the noise of insects' life changes. That decay is not death, but change, that decay is not an end, but a gestation. You can hear the greatness of life, the vastness of history, and the passage of time. And that autumn moon, a little bit, slowly rising to the end. It hung from the tops of the trees of the country like a postmark from god, like the bright eyes of an angel, so pure that it hurt. This moon, sometimes full of buds, sometimes pale green, sometimes pale blue, is pulling me with its pure color and innocent posture. It gives me a road to my ears, to my heart and to my home in the hustle and bustle of the earth. Wake up the sleeping ear, wake up the sleeping heart, listen to this autumn, this scrawl and charming autumn color, there is the moon's whisper, there is the flower's love words, there is the insect life end.
