Excerpt at least 123 fragments of the shape sound of the rain clip

With the help of the wind, the spring rain beats on the glass window, rhythmic and rhythmless. It is relentlessly afraid of hitting the trees, making a crackling sound, and the cozy trees are comfortably dying, and they open their arms to greet them happily. The spring rain beats on the asphalt pavement, and in a short time it creates a stream, and the sound of bubbling water comes out.

Someone else's original] The first draft of the rain (prose poem).

The sound of the rain. When the lonely thunder crossed the stretching ridge of Yanshan, the past in the lightning was like the echo of a horse's hooves running on the plain on the Yellow River.

The unrestrained horsehair.

Is there still a wild past of the white horse?

At the foot of Yan Mountain, the dark clouds flooded.

The mood of the wheat is full.

Still sighing at the wind blowing in the Mobei grassland.

In the unbreakable firmament of the wheat.

Can the anger in that particle pull us back from the sound of the rain?

I once wanted to grind the wheat township of the Central Plains from the starry sky.

to the rice fragrance of the Yellow River in Western Xia.

Under the devotion of this thing's natural selection.

Who is the Creator playing tricks on?

It is always the clumsy hands of ancestors for thousands of years.

on the chest. It can't be a drop of grace in the palm of the hand.

The fierce iron horse and the delicate repeater.

But they are always facing the same wheat field.

And Fang Yuan in the jade seal is always reminding of the word "Tian".

Now Helan Mountain has been covered by barren grass and sunset.

And the song of Chilechuan is always the same on both sides of the Great Wall.

Those settled white clouds are still drifting in whose vast mind.

In the faltering steps of time.

Ears of wheat hanging from historical oxcarts.

That's it. Sprinkled by the years on the evening avenue where the sky is getting darker.

In the loneliness of the sound of the rain.

The scarecrow tied up the desolation of the plains.

Set off along the rain marks of Wheat Country.

Just let's. Go in search of the ruined harvest drums in the mounds.

When those are twisted up ripe trembling.

Also jumping on our nerves.

But the wheat, which awoke, was still asleep.

In the rain-soaked window paper.

The fiery serpent of civilization awakens the lonely shadow of the urban home.

And who knows behind the eyes scratched by the glass.

The tears of the old maiden.

It is also like a crystal clear in the blue lake.

I really don't know about this. Ahem! You give me too little information. Or I can help you find it!

At noon, it was dark and dreary, like the Jade Emperor had knocked over the ink bottle. Suddenly, a rumbling thunder rang out, and a bolt of lightning slashed through the sky. After a while, the raindrops of soybeans fell from the sky, hitting the ground and crackling The sky was still full of wind and clouds just now, and in the blink of an eye, there was thunder and lightning, and violent storms, even if I was sitting at home, I felt the momentum of the earth shaking the mountains.

It was still cloudy, and in an instant there were thunderstorms, lightning and thunder, and the trees were blown away by the strong wind, crumbling, and the deafening thunder was like in the ears.