Sunset on the hillock

　　I was on my way from Chengdu to Meishan when I discovered that the sky was burning. The twilight of spring in the Chengdu plain is an arena of life. The green of the dam is trying to shield people's eyes, but in the end, it can't resist the dusk called by the sunset. What made me discover this situation was the raised hillock on the western horizon. The hillock in the sunset, immersed in a warm solution, seemed far away from me, but also seemed very close. This is very much like the light that V. Korolenko found back then, unattainable. Everything in front of me is just a kind of psychedelic vision in the dusk.

　　I remember that I had been to that hillock, one weekend not long ago. Friends said, all day in the city to stay in the plains is meaningless, the monotony of a glance constantly overlapping and straightforward, diluting all the passion and interest of people. Going to and coming from work, meetings, and conferences, ushering in and sending out, getting married and having children, people, as if they were a machine that had been formatted. The purpose of going to Yamaoka is pure, is to find a kind of ups and downs, a kind of sushis feel different in the distance and height, a kind of sobriety in the confusion in the sobriety. People are so strange, that sometimes for a change, just a change, a perhaps meaningless change, will have to do something deliberately. The road leading to the hill is long and winding as if to seek some kind of sacredness. It was a sunny day and walking in the autumn sun and breeze, there was a refreshing feeling. Before I reached the mountain, I felt a beautiful and fresh allure. Sometimes the purpose is in the process, for example, at this time, I was walking in a relaxed manner.

　　The hill is not high and not precipitous, no yelp is dangerous and high, nor is it 48,000 years old, and not with the Qinsei pass people. The hill is just an adobe of earth and stone, stacked on the edge of the plain, with no rules and no order, a casual and natural calm, just like the farmer who lives with it night and day. However, the pile-up time may be too long, the surface of the hill has grown a thick layer of cocoon shells. This is the outer clothing of the years, it let the Yamaoka wear, not just care and compassion, and not just warmth and shelter from the wind and rain, or a cover, and even worldly. It tightly wraps the mountain, so that it has some city, it no longer looks like the initial as simple as the original, it is clear to see. If it were not for the collapsed rock, I might only be able to walk on the surface of the hill, and it would be difficult to enter its depths and see its pure and sincere heart. After witnessing the shocking scene of nature, I felt that the collapse is a kind of tear, a painful tear. It tore the outer coat of the mountain, tore away a piece of the skin of the mountain, bare the bloody wound; and, through the wound to see the inner body of the mountain, the blood, the meat, those things that breed life.

　　The rock collapsed not long ago, most likely just this past summer. My judgment is based on the shape and color of the wound. It was fishy red, grotesque, ugly, and scarring. It made me think of the gruesome and painful tearing. Perhaps one day or night, after a long lightning bolt that ripped through the sky, the rain came pouring down, penetrating the muscles of the hillock, which was baked and cracked by the hot sun. Yamaoka can not be defended against, caught unawares, not yet back to the kind of long sky tearing scourge to themselves. First, the crack, moving, and some gentle; soon, rapid acceleration, a boom, the tear will be carried out to the end. In an instant, the rocks crumbled, the stones collapsed, and all those flowers and trees that clung to the cliffs were buried underground. A reshuffle of nature seems to have decided the end just like that. It is not, just like a gambling game, or an illness does not completely determine a person's entire fate. The shuffle does not count as a loss, as long as life is still alive, as long as the gamble is still going on, and as long as there is still sunlight, moisture, and oxygen.

　　I found that the wounds after the collapse of those rocks hide many mysteries. The piece is scarring, not yet fully healed at the wound, vaguely visible, stripes of varying thickness and shape of the root, like broken veins, probing the scarred head. One end of it is rooted deeper into the soil, while the other is separated from its mother in the tear. A child without a mother is like a blade of grass. The roots, like the collapsed earth and rocks, would soon wither, die, rot, and turn into dust and mud. But no. In one of the branches of those roots and whiskers, there are new shoots, new shoots of saplings. And some small grasses, too, grew out of the torn break. This had to make me feel very surprised. I do know that the roots of those small grasses are very shallow, and it is impossible to penetrate the collapsed soil layer. In other words, the collapsed rocks had already taken away all the life carriers of the grass and leaves, the seeds of life, which had long since gone up in smoke. However, the saplings grew up, and so did the grass. I think, there can only be one explanation, this hillock contains the gene of life; as long as the hillock is still there, the mother is there, life will not be exhausted!

　　Of course, what attracted me at this time was the sunset on the hill. The vastness of the Chengdu Plain opened up the view, and the hillock, which was not very tall, had the appearance of a crane. At dusk, the shadow of the western horizon looked very obvious. Below the line, the wilderness is gradually becoming misty, shady, and hidden; those in the wilderness of the village, forest pan, houses, like a mirage, seemingly. On the line, the blood-colored sunset, dyed red with a band of silver shuttle-shaped floating clouds, like red silk fluttering, more like the mountains in the burning. The mountain gangs on the horizon, are convex, upright, firm, and stand out. The sunset is like a discus being quenched, round, red, soft, suspended in the water on the horizon, golden light. At first glance, it is as if the hillock is gently holding the sunset up, rather than the sunset is approaching the hillock step by step; or, that sunset is a large red bean, is being gently planted into the hillock, the mysterious land.

　　Yes, it is planting. At this time I thought of planting. Who said the sunset is infinite, just near dusk? The sunset is the seed of life, from sunrise to sunset, is not the end of life, but a stage in the cycle of life, a process, a walking posture. The sunset that has gone through this process, like a mature and full seed, experienced the spring and autumn, then treasured all the secrets of life. Then, it was planted in the mountain, the land rich in life genes. The sunset is in, the hill is in, and the father and mother are in. At this point, there is no fear of lightning and thunder, no fear of pain, and no beauty tomorrow.

　　The sunset is planted on the hillock, and what is planted down is the years, and what grows is hope. I remembered the children's song when I was young, my heart long ago flew to the mountain. The sunset on the hill is the seed of life on the hill!