In my hometown, I don't see many wheat vase flowers these days. They grow in the wheat fields, which have now disappeared, and have been replaced by apple and peach orchards. The benefits of an orchard are obvious when compared to growing wheat and maize.

The wheat bottlebrush is a grass before it blooms, that branches and forks like the image of a tree. The grass is invisible in the wheat fields, hanging out with the wheat, basking in the sun, getting wet, whispering in the wind, laughing and joking, and being a childhood friend. The stalks of the wheat vase flower are as tall as straws and the colour is so different that it is difficult to recognise them at a glance from a few metres away. The McBottle Flower does not want to reveal herself prematurely; she is a female disguised as a male flowering Mulan. Was she worried that a sharp-eyed farmer would spot her at a glance, that she would compete with the wheat for food and drink, and then uproot her? That would force her to be cleared out of the wheat's family. She seems reluctant to show her head until the flowers bloom and grows a little lower than the wheat. The wheat seems to know what the vase flower is thinking, so it is crowded and surrounded by the wheat, which makes it harder for the farmers to find. In fact, there are not many vase flowers, just a few or a dozen popping up occasionally in a field of wheat, and they hide in the field like a drop of water in the sea.

Perhaps the bottlebrush is overthinking things and her fears are often superfluous. She did not have to be afraid at all. Even when the farmers see them, most of the time they are merciful. The fields are as fertile as a woman's milk, so can a few vase flowers smack the nutrients out of the wheat? I don't believe it. Besides, who doesn't appreciate the beauty of wheat vase flowers when they are in bloom? The pink and pink flowers are sparsely dotted around the green or yellow fields of wheat, a few here and a few there, brightly coloured. A few here and a few there, brightly coloured. A few more glances will put you in an extraordinarily joyful mood. She never disturbs the farmer. Unlike those sticky grasses that climb up the straw in groups of three or five, covered with dense fuzzy things, stick to people's trouser legs and hands, and stick to everyone. Farmers hate sticky weeds, so they pull one out when they see one, and one out when they see a cluster. If they don't remove it in time, when they finish milling, there are so many small, round, hard, black grass seeds mixed in with the wheat grains that they have to use a sieve to sift through them, piling up mountains of wheat, sifting through them one by one, not finishing them in a day or two, and their arms are so sore that they can't even catch them with chopsticks. The grass seeds have a terrifying reproductive power, as soon as they touch the soil, they grow like mad, one sticky grass has dozens and hundreds of grass seeds alone, once these grass seeds are sown into the field, their reproduction speed is amazingly fast. For this reason, when selecting wheat seeds, farmers have to pick out the grass seeds from the seeds, even if it takes a lot of effort.

The cuckoo's cry of "count the yellows, count the cuts" made both the flower and the wheat feel the approach of parting, and they did not "feel the time Of course they knew that next year they would still be reborn in the fields and that they would still be able to grow and laugh together.

Before the wheat yellows, the vase flower grows almost at a sprint and soon overtakes the wheat. She becomes a tiny flowering tree. On the branches of the tree hang several tiny green bottles, straw bottles with small mouths and large bellies, the mouths of which open into five-petalled vase flowers, like banners celebrating the harvest. The flowers are pink and pink. The wheat bottle flower said she would shine for once, born to be a flower, she could not live up to its name. She is not showing off, she just wants to present the colours of life as a flower.

Amongst all the flowers, the wheat vase flower is so unassuming, so simple and unassuming, that few people talk about her, or even know her name, let alone recognise her. Ask the young people who live in the city, who have heard of the wheat vase flower? If you were to hold up a wheat vase flower for them to identify, they would wonder: "Huh - what is this flower? How come I've never seen it before?

Oh, the wheat vase flower, the wheat vase flower in the wheat field, the pink, pink wheat vase flower.

In my hometown, I don't see many wheat vase flowers these days. They grow in the wheat fields, which have now disappeared, and have been replaced by apple and peach orchards. The benefits of an orchard are obvious when compared to growing wheat and maize.

The wheat bottlebrush is a grass before it blooms, that branches and forks like the image of a tree. The grass is invisible in the wheat fields, hanging out with the wheat, basking in the sun, getting wet, whispering in the wind, laughing and joking, and being a childhood friend. The stalks of the wheat vase flower are as tall as straws and the colour is so different that it is difficult to recognise them at a glance from a few metres away. The McBottle Flower does not want to reveal herself prematurely; she is a female disguised as a male flowering Mulan. Was she worried that a sharp-eyed farmer would spot her at a glance, that she would compete with the wheat for food and drink, and then uproot her? That would force her to be cleared out of the wheat's family. She seems reluctant to show her head until the flowers bloom and grows a little lower than the wheat. The wheat seems to know what the vase flower is thinking, so it is crowded and surrounded by the wheat, which makes it harder for the farmers to find. In fact, there are not many vase flowers, just a few or a dozen popping up occasionally in a field of wheat, and they hide in the field like a drop of water in the sea.

Perhaps the bottlebrush is overthinking things and her fears are often superfluous. She did not have to be afraid at all. Even when the farmers see them, most of the time they are merciful. The fields are as fertile as a woman's milk, so can a few vase flowers smack the nutrients out of the wheat? I don't believe it. Besides, who doesn't appreciate the beauty of wheat vase flowers when they are in bloom? The pink and pink flowers are sparsely dotted around the green or yellow fields of wheat, a few here and a few there, brightly coloured. A few here and a few there, brightly coloured. A few more glances will put you in an extraordinarily joyful mood. She never disturbs the farmer. Unlike those sticky grasses that climb up the straw in groups of three or five, covered with dense fuzzy things, stick to people's trouser legs and hands, and stick to everyone. Farmers hate sticky weeds, so they pull one out when they see one, and one out when they see a cluster. If they don't remove it in time, when they finish milling, there are so many small, round, hard, black grass seeds mixed in with the wheat grains that they have to use a sieve to sift through them, piling up mountains of wheat, sifting through them one by one, not finishing them in a day or two, and their arms are so sore that they can't even catch them with chopsticks. The grass seeds have a terrifying reproductive power, as soon as they touch the soil, they grow like mad, one sticky grass has dozens and hundreds of grass seeds alone, once these grass seeds are sown into the field, their reproduction speed is amazingly fast. For this reason, when selecting wheat seeds, farmers have to pick out the grass seeds from the seeds, even if it takes a lot of effort.

The cuckoo's cry of "count the yellows, count the cuts" made both the flower and the wheat feel the approach of parting, and they did not "feel the time Of course they knew that next year they would still be reborn in the fields and that they would still be able to grow and laugh together.

Before the wheat yellows, the vase flower grows almost at a sprint and soon overtakes the wheat. She becomes a tiny flowering tree. On the branches of the tree hang several tiny green bottles, straw bottles with small mouths and large bellies, the mouths of which open into five-petalled vase flowers, like banners celebrating the harvest. The flowers are pink and pink. The wheat bottle flower said she would shine for once, born to be a flower, she could not live up to its name. She is not showing off, she just wants to present the colours of life as a flower.

Amongst all the flowers, the wheat vase flower is so unassuming, so simple and unassuming, that few people talk about her, or even know her name, let alone recognise her. Ask the young people who live in the city, who have heard of the wheat vase flower? If you were to hold up a wheat vase flower for them to identify, they would wonder: "Huh - what is this flower? How come I've never seen it before?

Oh, the wheat vase flower, the wheat vase flower in the wheat field, the pink, pink wheat vase flower.