March is a subtle word. Chen Yingsong read the answer.

March, a delicate word, tender as tofu, is afraid of being taken away by winter. March, walking has become a broad and admirable word. March is not a season, but an impulse. March is warm only when it is combined with the lunar calendar, and it is definitely warm sweating. In the agricultural proverb, it is already the sound of plows and rakes, the return of Yan Zi, and the cold is a spent force. Although there is a saying that "don't eat May Zongzi, don't send cold clothes", March won't care, which is outdated advice for some elderly people with missing teeth. The seams of many agricultural proverbs have long been warm as spring: "7963, pedestrians are widely clothed ... 998 1, yellow dogs enjoy the cool." There is also an ancient poem: "Blowing noodles is not cold." Stay at home, still wearing thick winter clothes, roasting on the fire, shrinking your neck, it seems that winter will continue like this. I made a sweat as soon as I went out. Oh, is spring really here? The sun is a little dazzling. I saw someone calling in Weibo and QQ: Why hasn't the damn spring come yet? Flowers, flowers, flowers! In spring, if you don't come again, I'll make you cry rhythmically! This kind of clamor, tug-of-war, tearing down the fence and hating iron not to produce, spring came with March.

But the season is slow. Spring is that kind of impatience, unlike winter, when a gust of wind comes. She tried to jump into the river from those unknown grass buds while others were not looking. Here she came. A little wind and a little sun, you say, warm sun. Say it several times and confess it repeatedly. Am I really warm, dear? There she is, very quiet. A little fragile, a little lazy, a little indifferent, a little cunning, a little naughty, a little wavy, a little fragrant, I don't know where it came from.

Birds secretly rejoice, and their songs are generous and steady. Thankfully, their nests are finally no longer teetering in the long north wind. It's a warm nest, yes, it's a warm nest, no longer bumpy, and you can have a spring dream. Of course I like spring dreams. If the boundary between the lunar calendar and the solar calendar is blurred, March is a longing word. A monster who is not suddenly warm and cold, a day without conspiracy and fantasy, a weather where you can go out with confidence, and you have trust in the world. March is a way of life. March suddenly makes the sky busy, kites fly around, swallows build nests and bees collect honey. Flies and midges also came out and were caught in the beauty contest in the sky.

There is no bustle and promiscuity of city people, no exaggeration, no fun, look around, put on a pose, hold out a V-shaped hand, laugh silly, and compete with flowers on WeChat Weibo. There are really too many March in the countryside, so it is not worth making a fuss about. There is a March on the left and a March on the right. This slope is March, and that ditch is March; It's rotten grass in March and pond in March. There are more cherry blossoms and apricot flowers, not a park as big as a bonsai. March in the countryside is endless. Every land is a market in March, and every ditch is also a department store in March. Not concentrated, not deliberate, not ostentatious, plain, but dazzling. It's not all like this. There are still many cruel remnants in March in the countryside, leaving evidence of clearing the soil in the cold winter. For example, on a haystack and a tree, withered vines and rotten fruits that trip gourd or loofah are hung, and they pretend to be life swaying in the wind, leaving spring helpless; A naked cow, some staggering in front of a clump of grass, trying to restore taste; The moon still looks a little cloudy, like the last accomplice of winter. Trees that are slow to understand the spring breeze are gaining momentum, but they have not fully awakened. The apricot blossoms in front of and behind the house can't wait to climb to the branches and form clusters, and pile up the tree in a gaudy way, dressed like a madman. A wild cherry is like a village girl smiling shyly at the water's edge, very quiet and quiet. At the Yuan Ye in March, many death squads cheered for the highland occupied by spring. I saw two bees swishing away from the apricot tree and flying to the field where shepherd's purse was in full bloom. The shepherd's purse there is dense and wide. When the wind blows, it is swept away by the waves and returned by the waves. I don't like the paint that blooms this season. They occupied almost all the wilderness. Flowers are not like flowers and leaves are not like leaves. Their common name is ghost umbrella. In barren hills and graves, they look like umbrellas from another world. They are too scary, too ignorant of current politics, and they pretend to be masters. But when I return to the city, I will miss them. I miss everything in the country, including plants and wild dogs I don't like.

March makes the fields and horizons endless. The deeper March goes, all crops and plants skyrocket like the tide. This is a juncture, a crossroads. The sunshine is getting brighter every day, and the weather is becoming more humane every day, like a dog. The sky is getting higher and bluer every day. Finally, rape has become the new favorite of the earth. She is too strong, too overbearing, supercilious and bound to be crazy. Oh, this yellow floating gold is full of buds, spreading under the vast sky, as if the earth is a delicious golden feast. There is no dust in the air, and the smoke is like a wisp, pink and dazzling. Because of this big hand, the whole stadium is full of color and youthful. The partridge makes a sound, and the sound contains water mist. The wild celery on the roadside is flourishing, and Pinellia ternata, asparagus, Ophiopogon japonicus and Artemisia argyi are also flourishing with wheat seedlings. The green awn of Puccinellia in the water first appeared, and the elm pulled out its branches from the pimples and shook its small transparent leaves in the sun. The majestic high-voltage tower jumps hand in hand to the ends of the earth. Occasionally, it rained apricot blossoms and wet my clothes. Small, but the earth is wet, and people's clothes are really wet. After a while, the sun came out as if it had been washed with water. The sun rolled in the fields, rose like a mass of iron mud in the warm and hazy gas, and was red and steaming, and sprayed on the sea of rape flowers, shining brightly. The cuckoo cries across the sky, but you can't see the bird. The cuckoo's cry is an alarm for this season.

On such a night, in front of your window, the smell of plant growth will sneak up on you. In a distant country, I can't sleep at all on such a spring night. It's like listening to a quarrel, just like the dissatisfaction and roar of all living things-the songs of insects are like rushing tides, which suddenly rise with the moonlight, compared with their voices. It's a waking night. No matter how far away, spring is always there. Why are these bugs so loud? This book is called Song of the Kunchong. But my village is very noisy at night in March, where there are no songs and shouts. Do they really have too much excitement to call their friends on such a night? Is the throat that has been suppressed for a winter cleaned by moonlight bright? Is there too much to tell about this warm world? Are they a group of petitioners? Unknown mass events in the insect world? It's incredible that these bugs are thicker than people's throats. The frog looks lonely, quiet and calm, and doesn't want to join in the fun. Mostly bugs. Too noisy, too noisy. What's going on here? Can't you just enjoy the time God gave you and find yourself quietly? They tore at their throats as if everyone had a piece of steel in their mouth. Call it, call it, make noise, March can't stop your singing and reunion after such a long separation.

In detail, the smoky wind blowing from the wild brings the fragrance of rape, shepherd's purse and dandelion, wild cherry, wild apricot and wild alfalfa, as well as the fragrance of plants and water. My brain is blank. Don't tell who is who and who is less. There are more dodder seeds, grey vegetables, wild peas, wormwood, geese that don't eat, and some plants with nicknames in the field. They are all there, and none of them are lost. From a distance, the whole village floats in the sea of rape flowers, as if soaked in honey.

I don't envy those who like March. I went back to my desk and began to write about you with respect.