A good sentence in Zhang Xiaofeng s essay prose . Urgent!!

Nostalgia for Spring.

Spring must have been like this: from the green and restrained hills, a handful of snow can no longer hold it, a puff, a cold face will be smiled into a flower, a song will be sung from the clouds to the foothills, from the foothills to the low deserted villages, sung into the hedgerow, sung into the yellow webs of a duckling, sung into the soft and dissolved spring mud - as soft as a freshly turned quilt.

So delicate, so sensitive, but so endless. A thunder can provoke the clouds that cry all over the sky for no reason, a burst of cuckoo crying, can fight a city of azaleas, a gust of wind rises, and every willow sings out a white and vast, empty fluttering and unspeakable, uninvited flying, every trace of flying, is a semicolon of a willow. Anyway, spring is so unreasonable and illogical, and it can still be too good to be peaceful.

Spring must have been like this: the dry stems of the leaves and flowers in the pond were dead and struggling to guard an old root, and the beams of thousands of houses in the north were still gently holding a small empty bird's nest under the pressure of the wind and snow, and then, suddenly, one day, the peach blossoms conquered all the mountain villages. The willow tree controls the royal ditch of the royal family and the river head of the people - spring is like a royal master with a clear banner, and the group has been pious for a long time and pious prayers and becomes beautiful.

And about the name of spring, there must have been such a story: before the "Book of Songs", before the "Book of Songs", before the Cangjie made words, a little sheep suddenly felt sweating when gnawing grass, a child suddenly felt the soaring when flying a kite, a pair of legs suffering from wind pain suddenly felt comfortable, thousands of pairs of hands on the bank of the stream, on the pond side of the river, on the side of the river, the hands of the sand suddenly felt the blood of the water, ......As they ran to each other in amazement, they decided to pout their mouths in the shape of whistling and name the season "Spring" with a pleasant whispering volume.

Birds can start measuring the sky again. Some are responsible for measuring the blueness of the sky, some are responsible for measuring the transparency of the sky, and some are responsible for measuring the height and depth of the sky with those wings. And all the birds are not good mathematicians, they squeak and calculate, and nucleus, and finally do not dare to announce the statistics.

As for all the flowers, they have been handed over to the butterflies to count. Give all the stamen to the bees to compile. All the trees, leave it to the wind to pamper. And the wind, hand over to the old wind chimes in front of the eaves to remember and inquire one by one.

Spring must have been like this, or, somewhere, it still is, right? Walking through the Black Forest, where chimneys and chimneys are in the past, I want to visit the spring that lingers in the middle of the distant age.