Author: Xu Zhiqiang.
Editor in charge: Zheng Xinyi.
Xie Wanfei. WeChat editor: Wang Xinyuan.
I don't know the names of the many trees planted along the river, but they all have similar leaves and are almost the same green. Even if I look closely, I can't tell from the shape of the leaves or the new buds on the branches that distinguish one tree from the others. If it's a bird, I think I can describe it simply by their black, white, or colorful colors. For these immovable things that grow upwards in green, I have to call them collectively, trees. A lot of the time, I actually skipped it directly, like a cold face passing through a sea of people.
These trees do not produce sweet fruits, so that we can call its name by taste, and there are no significant characteristics, unlike those delicate flowers that greet each other during the New Year's holidays, and the poplars that spit out wisps of fine flocculents in the spring in the core section of the city. It is not noisy, silently locks in moisture, absorbs harmful factors in the air, is willing to act as a supporting role incognito tree, what it is doing, and only one thing it does in its life, is to absorb the sunshine and rain that falls in life, strive for the roots to be an inch deeper, and the tree cover is one step higher, to protect its own square inch, to deliver more but inaccurately measured oxygen, to pay for the noise that is created, and to hedge against the improperly emitted polluting gases.
A tree is often known for its dullness and ignorance of the world. In the vernacular society, if people call someone "Mr. Tree", it is certainly not a compliment, but a mockery with malicious intent. When I was younger, I didn't want to be a tree, or even a fellow tree. In my hometown in the south of Hengshan Mountain, there are forests and wetlands everywhere, and the grass and trees in front of the house are so deep that people look at it in a panic, and the mountain people use sickles and axes to reclaim it, carve out a road out of the mountain, and teach the younger generations not to be like these cursed trees, to be trapped in the mountains for generations, to become fierce and flexible predators, to train a pair of strong legs, to leave this barren land, to go far away, to conquer others.
Compared with trees, animals are swift, but they are also fragile, unable to withstand the ups and downs of the times, and are visibly declining to the naked eye. I saw those animals that had not yet had a home in old age, with their teeth lost, their hair thinned, and their bodies loose, like rootless duckweed floating in the world and helpless, somewhat miserable and pitiful. And the tree is an eternal animal, it has its own roots, it stabilizes its own gods, and it is deeply cultivated in the square inch of land under its feet, and a tree is familiar with the laws of nature, and has insight into the mysteries of life and death, so that its appearance has a certain deception. Even if the wind blows in the bleak winter wind, its bare skin looks like it has been eaten by rodents, but you don't have time to feel sad, and in the spring of the next year, it will grow new green buds, completing a cycle of life and death and self-repair.
I want to be a tree because of the freedom of the tree. Yes, the tree may seem to stand still, but it also has its own freedom. Whether it's up or down, the tree is not bound by a frame. No one is qualified to teach a tree how you should grow. In the unobtrusive corners, no one has the leisure to care about its growth. Therefore, the endless high altitude is the direction in which it can elongate arbitrarily. It is not straight and long, and it does not need to carry out the perfect answer of the shortest straight line between two points, and many times, its branches take a detour, almost crookedly climbing upwards, seemingly wasting nutrients and time, but in fact supporting a huge canopy that shelters from the wind and rain.
Standing in the shade under the trees, I felt an indescribable kindness. Sometimes, I would talk to the tree about my troubles, but it wouldn't speak, it would still be there, responding to me with silence. A tree can't speak, and I think it must have a deep wisdom. Even if a tree could talk, it probably wouldn't cry out in pain. A tree will not be like a person who is old, and his body is full of acne that cannot be **. I have seen those amazing locust trees at the entrance of the village, even if they are offended and half of their bodies are cut off, they can grow crookedly at the entrance of the village and continue to live for many generations.
On a late autumn afternoon, I was helpless for the arrival of winter. Walking in the wetlands of the river, fortunately, the sun is moderate, and I feel comfortable for a long time. The forest is very quiet and quiet, and there are no other people. I crept closer to a hugging tree. The birds in the trees didn't notice me, neither did the trees, so I covered my feet and stood still. I was waiting, and I waited for a wind to come. The wind blew through the layers of leaves, and I heard the trees dancing with joy, like the happy laughter of a child when it was tickled. The overwhelming green, the waves swelled and rolled, and the birds resting in the trees were frightened and flew out of the forest in a panic.
A small black fruit fell from the tree and landed on my head impartially. I was a little in pain, and I took a picture of **, and the intelligent picture recognition software told me that its name was privet, and the black dots all the way ahead were the masterpieces it laid, and the shoes stepped on it gently, and the fruit burst crisply from the inside. On that day, I recognized the differences between privet, tulipwood, and metasequoia. I became aware of my aphasia, which extended to insects, birds, and more in nature.
When I came out of the forest, the wind gradually weakened, and a few tall and straight ginkgo trees stood on the side of the road, looking at me with the loneliness of 200 million years ago.
Are you leaving?
That's what it says in the picture I imagined. Actually, a tree doesn't have to speak, unlike me, many times, still looking for a reason to have to speak.
Review: Yang Yue.
Reviewer: Zhou Wei.
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