The so-called "road" is a mixture of "walk" and "each". Maybe it is the only way to walk each. There are too many roads in the world, but the deepest one in my memory is the road of life. The road of life has always been hard to say clearly. It's still a small path in childhood that always has many thoughts. This is a winding road leading to the river. It has no name. It's vaguely called earth road. It's not a name. Only people are allowed to walk this road. The more you walk, the more you can call it, as long as you can walk. Many childhood playmates have disappeared, maybe they have become father or mother, walking their own way in a corner of the world. This dirt road is not long. There are two rows of big poplars towering on both sides of the road with hundreds of meters. There are tall and short ones. They recognize this place. They stay here all the year round. When they wake up in spring, their branches are waving, and they laugh wantonly in the wind and rain. In the summer, one of them gasps and chuckles even worse. I asked my father, "Why are these trees not afraid of heat?" father I just smiled silently, and saw that I asked again and again, and just added, "I don't see any leaves on the tree, these leaves are like big palm fans!" I knew that my father was perfunctory to me, but I couldn't find any reason to refute, just for this reason. In autumn, the palm fans of the trees are all gone. In the cold winter, the trees are not even breathing. It's estimated that they are asleep. They must be dreaming. They dream that the spring of the next year will be more beautiful. They will be one year older next year. But whether these trees can last into the next year, no one knows. Some of them have worms, some of them are thirsty, some of them have been cut down. Maybe this is their way. It's hard to predict. After all, they're not human beings. Besides, they're not Zhang Tianshi. Who can figure out their own way? After all, the road is the road. When there's wind, it blows the dust irrationally. You can pluck your beard and stare. It still blows hard , it has its temper, it has its character, but what about me? Big white poplar and green grass have long been used to this unbridled, or standing upright, shaking at will, my playmates and I also seem to like this momentum, flying in the dust, laughing in the dust, praying in the dust, like fog like clouds, becoming immortals, cultivating the way. The road full of weeds on both sides has been lying there since I can remember. It may be too cold in autumn and winter, or it may be too cold to bear the coldness of trees and the bleakness of grass. My playmates and I seldom play in the river. It is estimated that the path and river also forget us. Spring and summer are the time to play. In groups of people, especially in the hot dog days, they just need to wear a pair of underpants and jump on the road. In the river water, there are light and shadow on their bare buttocks. They are gougouer, zhaimengzi, touching mussels and grabbing loaches. You chase me and run around in the sun. I am already black. I am blacker by the sun. But who knows The color of life? At that time, the river water was like a mirror, and the fish in the past swam into the painting with a brush of ink. The water is not deep. Pull up your trousers, step in with your feet, and touch it in the mud with your hands. Mussels are not as good as fish. As long as you find hard shells and grab them, they can't run away. In a short time, you can pick up a whole basket, go to the shells, wash them with water, and dip them in them
