The duck sat in front of the window, looking out the window at the quiet mountains and idle clouds, a landscape, the sky is wide, as if time had stood still. Feel is the landscape before the ancient times, everything is waiting to start. It is like the blank space before the painter has even touched the pen; It was as if the player's fingers were resting on the keys, holding their breath. There was no sound, but everything was about to begin. It was as if nothing was on the stage. Despite the gongs and drums, no man had yet appeared. Time and space were waiting, waiting for the beginning of life, waiting for the first baby cry in the wilderness to wake up heaven and earth. A white egret flew quietly, the original static picture, suddenly moved. The photo became a movie, and in an instant, there was sound, there was action. The crane came down from the sky very lightly. White open wings, floating in the air, fluttering and swaying, like a piece of white petals inadvertently falling in the breeze, wavering in the air, do not know where to land. Usually, before the ebb of the tide, bitterns will land on the tops of mangrove trees or on the tops of wooden posts outlying the water. They can perch motionless for a long time, thin long legs, graceful neck, white body, especially eye-catching in the landscape, like a noble sculpture.

The crane crane crane crane crane neck, waiting for the tide to ebb, waiting for the shallow water to emerge fish, shrimp and crabs, waiting for the river beach, high eyes, a crane wings, bent over the water, the long pointed beak has picked up a prey. The crane's stillness is actually a kind of concentration. Like the blank space before the painter, and the silence before the performance, the crane focuses on its survival. Gyroscope, all-out focus, so that life condenses into a kind of beauty, a kind of beauty like sculpture. When the tide was out, the bittern moved to land on the black bank. The river flats are full of fiddler crabs, on the run. The crane pecked one by one, moving quickly and accurately. I look in the window sill, step by step, feel the scenery more cause and effect of life and death. Mountains and rivers are still just mountains and rivers, without any likes or dislikes. Friends came, familiar with my work and rest, I do not need to say hello, they freely at the window to see the scenery, see the mountains and water, see the tide to go, see the crane fly or fall, each have their own understanding. B came several times, love to see the elegant ethereal egrets, often did not send a word, sitting at the window watching the river. I was reading when he said, "There are ducks!" "You just found out now!" I put down my book and went to the window. "I looked at it for a long time and thought it was a crane that was clumsy," said B. I was amused by his metaphor. Looking down from the windowsill, I saw a duck among the osprey. It was light brown and yellow in color and not as clever as the osprey. At the beginning of this year, a group of ducks suddenly appeared by the river, more than a dozen of them, floating in a long line on the shallow water, or a large group of them walking on the beach, waddling. I sat idly by the window, more than a kind of fun. Talking to the neighbors, I don't even know where the duck came from. Our simple riverfront apartment complex, with its small but familiar residents, asks each other: Who has a flock of ducks? In the end, there was no answer. The ducks soon grew bigger day by day, and it seemed that there was much to eat by the river, and no one needed to feed them. Ducks are never close to the river, not close to people, they always gather together, from a distance, like a brush writing a Yibingding "B" word, I think of Yuan people in the landscape painting is really in such a way to draw ducks, very happy. For a while it became a great pleasure to sit by the window and watch the ducks. The ducks are not by the river, but they go out of their way to find it. When they waddled out of the mangrove thicket, they were relieved. One day the duck disappeared, leaving only one alone on the beach, croaking as if in panic, looking for company. The neighbor said angrily: "Must have been caught by the bad guys to eat." I looked at the duck. Would it feel lonely in a crowd of white bitterns?

The duck sat in front of the window, looking out the window at the quiet mountains and idle clouds, a landscape, the sky is wide, as if time had stood still. Feel is the landscape before the ancient times, everything is waiting to start. It is like the blank space before the painter has even touched the pen; It was as if the player's fingers were resting on the keys, holding their breath. There was no sound, but everything was about to begin. It was as if nothing was on the stage. Despite the gongs and drums, no man had yet appeared. Time and space were waiting, waiting for the beginning of life, waiting for the first baby cry in the wilderness to wake up heaven and earth. A white egret flew quietly, the original static picture, suddenly moved. The photo became a movie, and in an instant, there was sound, there was action. The crane came down from the sky very lightly. White open wings, floating in the air, fluttering and swaying, like a piece of white petals inadvertently falling in the breeze, wavering in the air, do not know where to land. Usually, before the ebb of the tide, bitterns will land on the tops of mangrove trees or on the tops of wooden posts outlying the water. They can perch motionless for a long time, thin long legs, graceful neck, white body, especially eye-catching in the landscape, like a noble sculpture.

The crane crane crane crane crane neck, waiting for the tide to ebb, waiting for the shallow water to emerge fish, shrimp and crabs, waiting for the river beach, high eyes, a crane wings, bent over the water, the long pointed beak has picked up a prey. The crane's stillness is actually a kind of concentration. Like the blank space before the painter, and the silence before the performance, the crane focuses on its survival. Gyroscope, all-out focus, so that life condenses into a kind of beauty, a kind of beauty like sculpture. When the tide was out, the bittern moved to land on the black bank. The river flats are full of fiddler crabs, on the run. The crane pecked one by one, moving quickly and accurately. I look in the window sill, step by step, feel the scenery more cause and effect of life and death. Mountains and rivers are still just mountains and rivers, without any likes or dislikes. Friends came, familiar with my work and rest, I do not need to say hello, they freely at the window to see the scenery, see the mountains and water, see the tide to go, see the crane fly or fall, each have their own understanding. B came several times, love to see the elegant ethereal egrets, often did not send a word, sitting at the window watching the river. I was reading when he said, "There are ducks!" "You just found out now!" I put down my book and went to the window. "I looked at it for a long time and thought it was a crane that was clumsy," said B. I was amused by his metaphor. Looking down from the windowsill, I saw a duck among the osprey. It was light brown and yellow in color and not as clever as the osprey. At the beginning of this year, a group of ducks suddenly appeared by the river, more than a dozen of them, floating in a long line on the shallow water, or a large group of them walking on the beach, waddling. I sat idly by the window, more than a kind of fun. Talking to the neighbors, I don't even know where the duck came from. Our simple riverfront apartment complex, with its small but familiar residents, asks each other: Who has a flock of ducks? In the end, there was no answer. The ducks soon grew bigger day by day, and it seemed that there was much to eat by the river, and no one needed to feed them. Ducks are never close to the river, not close to people, they always gather together, from a distance, like a brush writing a Yibingding "B" word, I think of Yuan people in the landscape painting is really in such a way to draw ducks, very happy. For a while it became a great pleasure to sit by the window and watch the ducks. The ducks are not by the river, but they go out of their way to find it. When they waddled out of the mangrove thicket, they were relieved. One day the duck disappeared, leaving only one alone on the beach, croaking as if in panic, looking for company. The neighbor said angrily: "Must have been caught by the bad guys to eat." I looked at the duck. Would it feel lonely in a crowd of white bitterns?