Spring is a verb

The spring breeze blew over warmly, the frozen river began to loosen up, the Spring Festival passed in a flash, and everyone could no longer sit still and moved.

The birds in the field also chirped a few times, as if urging to hurry up and take care of the fields. The sister-in-law next door was carrying out fertilizer from her house, packs and packs of it, heavy with weight. Uncle was driving his beeping golden ox, waiting for the bags of fertilizer to be shipped out. With sharpened hoes and sharp scythes, he drove the little golden ox to the fields with great enthusiasm.

The fields were full of joy and people. The warm sun shone brightly, the frozen soil seemed to be gradually softened, some small insects could not help but crawl out, crawling in the brilliant sunlight, occasionally fluttering wings, want to fly up, embrace the long-lost spring. Some unknown birds jumped on the small trees that were still bare before the swallows returned and sang their hearts out.

The creek at the edge of the field has woken up, a few spring thunder last night woke them up, clattering a spring rain soundly, the creek twisted weak body, full of joy, can not wait to embrace the frozen soil, wake up everything still in the soil embrace soundly asleep, let the grass quickly burrowed out, look at the appearance of spring

Spring is the most generous and the most equal of all. Whoever cares for her, she gives the most. The soil in the field is only slightly wet, but the sharp plowshare has stubbornly pushed in. The cheerful little golden calf toots hard, the person driving holds the hand lever tightly, holding the direction, sweat seeping out of his forehead, not bothering to wipe it off, staring straight ahead, wanting to plow the field as soon as possible.

The woman carried a small hoe and followed closely behind, digging a small hole in the loose land, sprinkling a few fertilizers, throwing down a few seeds, quickly covering the soil, and burying the year's hopes for the next year's harvest.

The plowed land is like a map that has been drawn and neatly divided. The horizontal is straight and the vertical is like a line, as if the person plowing is not planting crops, but painting a picture, depicting the beauty of labor and the beauty of spring.

My golden calf is running out of oil. From the other side of the field came an eager shout, and kept waving his hand. I have some here, I'll send it to you! Immediately there was a kind response. Then, pouncing, three steps at a time, he hurriedly sent it to the man over there.

How much have you finished plowing? I've almost finished mine. The man who has finished his work sighs with relief and sits down on the field, looking with pleasure at the fruits of his half-day's work. When he thinks of the black sugar cane or the full corn growing here, he can't help but sing a smooth mountain song.

This side sings and that side harmonizes. Mountain songs are seldom sung alone, once someone starts singing, there are always others to respond, and even the birds in the trees also chirp along. The fields were filled with laughter. Those children who did not start school, enjoying their holidays, followed their parents to the fields and followed behind them, helping to plant some seeds and experiencing the joy of working. They were happy to see the trees and the birds, and to have such close contact with nature. Because it is much more interesting than the boring knowledge in the classroom. When they are done, they can catch some bugs from the dirt and run around in the fields. Facing the mountains, they shouted loudly and burst out all the depression they had been holding all winter. What a pleasure it is!

The spring is just a lot of fun. In a few days, the green leaves grow, the red flowers bloom, and the birds and flowers are everywhere.