The journey of a grain of rice

This is destined to be a classic route year after year, about a grain of rice travel.

In May, amidst the faint sound of the cereal, the seedlings emerge verdantly, and the farmer brings the baskets, the seedlings sit on the farmer's wobbly baskets, squeezing the weeds on the roadside all the way, and the stretcher falls with bright drops of water, going to the rice fields with the light of the sky and clouds in the way of a seasonal mitzvah.

A grain of rice begins to travel in this way. As soon as it goes out, it encounters a driving rain head-on. The seedlings are in the rain, stretching their waists, tilting their little heads, grinning and sucking to their heart's content. The seedlings need bubbling water, and the water from the creek is flowing along the canal. At this time, a fish, with a splash, swims into the rice plantation.

A grain of rice is on the journey, and the rain is hot at the same time. The high temperature spreads freely among the seedling trees. Only with such a dense heat does a grain of rice start to draw. On the day of three volcanoes, the posture of farmers working in the paddy fields is a silhouette in the backlight, sketched in the sky with the rice fields as the background. Those seedlings are gurgling and drinking, and the farmers are sitting under the shade of the trees in between pulling weeds, also gurgling and drinking. There was a thick layer of limescale in the kettle they carried with them.

Children from the city are googly-eyed in their observations of the countryside. On the ridge of the field, the buffalo coming towards us, a pair of big eyes timidly. Farmers' proverb: goose eyes look small when looking at people, and cow eyes look big when looking at people. The cow's eyes shine with awe of the land.

A grain of rice meets love. At this time, there are frogs and drums and insects in the rice fields. The hotter the emotion, the higher the temperature, and a grain of rice develops in the tightly wrapped womb of the rice husk. A grain of rice in the grouting, in the sunlight, placed in the palm of your hand, gently rubbed with your hand, is bursting, tender, green with jade pulp. Not far away, the girl next door, sitting under a tree, quietly thinking about her mind.

Humidity and heat are accompanied by sweat. Song Dynasty poet Dai Fugu described in "The Great Heat", "Heaven and earth a big kiln, Yang charcoal cooking June. All things are in this ceramic fusion, why do people complain about the heat. You see the hundred grains in autumn, also since the heat in the knot. The water in the field boils like soup, and the sweat on the back is as wet as splashing." It's so hot! The whole world is like a big porcelain kiln, burning in the scorching heat of June. Why complain about the heat of the day? Look at the fruits of autumn, which are actually bred in this hot summer. Plowing in such weather, the fields are terribly hot, the water in the rice paddies, hot, hot, like boiling general, the sweat on the farmer's back, as if a basin of water had been poured over it, wet ......

Wait until the heat subsides, the cool wind rises, the farmer's forehead beads of sweat gradually dried, autumn has arrived, the dream rice paddies, gradually dried up, the earth is a golden yellow. A grain of rice, waiting to be harvested. Just like that, a grain of rice comes to an abrupt end in the journey of time.

When I was a child, I often ate half of a bowl of rice left over. Grandmother saw this, from time to time reminded that, waste of food, the head of the thunder. A grain of rice, seven pounds and four taels of water. I was so frightened that I rushed to pick clean, deliberately make a loud noise, the bottom of the bowl illuminated the human figure.

Arrived at the destination, a grain of rice, shed the thin husk of rice, into a crystal grain, and began another of its travels, from the countryside into the city.

At that time, my father worked in a grain store. The grain store's piles were stacked to the roof, and the piles were made up of bags and bags of rice. I lay on the piles, the weight of the squeeze, a pile of rice underneath me, swimming slowly and in an orderly fashion. Lying on the grain pallets on the days of the game, I had seen the sacks filled with countless grains of rice, stamped, and some marked with a seal. There was one sack that had the words written on it, "Xinhe brigade, Zhang." I guessed that this must be left by the farmer who sold this packet of rice, and he could not let go of this packet of rice harvested after a hard summer? Standing in the shade, gurgling and drinking water. Or is it that the city people who are panning rice for cooking know that this packet of rice was grown by a man named Zhang in the countryside? Between each other, there is a kind of destiny.

A grain of rice journey, is a bitter summer journey, rain and thunder, waiting for patience, breeding metamorphosis; is a tossing journey, boat and car, each link, are linked to many people.

A grain of rice, feeding the countryside and the city.