Every one of us, everybody has his own country. The hometown is a sweet pot, a place to leave beautiful memories in life. Although we have to go far, people always remember about their fatherland.
I grew up in the lowlands, where there is a straight field of wings flying. And perhaps the rice paddy field is always attractive to drag people away to think of where they cut their belly button. Spring morning to stand at the top of the village that looks like a field of interest! The wind was blowing lightly, the wave of rice paddled each time, each chase away each other forever. A white heron spread wings wide, prominent on the blue sky. Especially the days when the farmers go to the grass, the field of the line up loud singing .. Singing butterflies colorful enough as joking with the green rice mats. In the rice season is ripe, if anyone standing far away will see a vast sea of gold. Scattered throughout the field is a scene of farmers harvesting rice, white cone hovering over the field.
In the afternoon, when the wind blows softly, the rice gently shakes as they whisper words together. The autumn afternoon, fog over the field, looking far as a thin smoke, thanks to white smoke. In the morning, the fog melts away the dew drops glittering on the leaves.
By the time the sun warms up the field, the rays of the sun shine into the mist like a pile of jade, light up the light of color, want to look beautiful.
In my neighborhood, there are brothers and sisters who go far, visit the countryside also visit the field. They look at the sparrows looking for food to fly on the rug. Occasionally, they parked down and then soared soaring sky blue roaring hiccup call.
I love my village, love my hometown. Here I was born and raised. Nowadays, the sunken region has the "iron buffalo" ice band running in the field. High voltage power village bright. Life is on the way to happiness.
Tick nha.
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