By: Wang xiaoli

After the Start of Autumn, though the twenty‑four “autumn tigers” still cling to lingering summer heat, repeated showers have brought temperatures down considerably. No longer sweltering like mid‑summer, the weather has turned milder.

Beyond the compound walls stretches Hongqing Mountain. Terraced fields lie tier upon tier, with gullies crisscrossing the land. Soft winds set waves of green rolling over the hillsides. The woods glow in rich, varied tints, like many beautiful scroll paintings unfolded by nature. Abundant rains have turned the mountain slopes green and nourished the crops.

Standing at the foot of the mountain, I marvel at the endless expanse of green all around me, a generous gift bestowed by nature.

This year’s crops thrive exceptionally well. Beside the trail, in the cornfields, corn plants stand tall and lush. Ears of corn, more than thirty centimeters long, lean against sturdy stalks, like chubby babies held in arms. The morning sun filters down in dappled patches over the corn tops, brightening villagers’ smiling faces. Hidden deep within thick cornfields, villagers are barely visible, yet their laughter drifts out through gaps between stalks. They pluck tender young corn, hoping to get a good price at market.

On the neighboring slope grow sweet‑potato plants. Their leaves are as big as palms, and their vines as thick as fingers, spreading far and wide. Their deep‑green foliage glistens under the rising sun, and rich green stretches out on all sides. Several farmers bend low, wielding hoes to clear weeds, and carefully loosening soil around the sweet‑potato shoots. Sweat soaks their clothing, yet their faces remain bright with smiles.

Beside the sweet‑potato field lies a small cotton patch. Cotton plants grow thick and leafy, dotted with pearly‑pink and creamy‑white blossoms that stand out vividly against dark‑green leaves. Bees buzz busily, darting from flower to flower in search of nectar.

Down the slope lie village vegetable gardens. The eggplants bear fan‑sized leaves, their glossy purple fruits hanging from the branches and glinting with a purple sheen. Chilli peppers thrive, their bright‑red fruits like firecrackers and green ones like little bells. A soft breeze stirs, the chili‑laden branches swaying, as if faint tinkling sounds drift on the wind. Tomatoes, like little red lanterns, hang from the branches as if greeting their keepers. Soft fragrance drifts on the breeze.

Beside the fields stand rows of walnut trees. Their walnuts, fist‑sized, rest heavy among the leaves, quiet and unassuming, plump and substantial. Though not yet fully ripe, some farmers have already brought ladders and climbed up into the trees to pick the green‑husked walnuts, hoping for a good price.

Scattered across gullies are persimmon trees, most growing wild. Their trunks vary greatly in thickness; some are barely ten centimeters across, others bowl‑sized, and some old trees are nearly thick enough for one person to wrap arms around. Many are more than twenty years old. Their broad canopies spread like umbrellas, heavy with rich‑green foliage. Young‑green persimmons dot the branches. These smooth, translucent fruits are slightly larger than a thumb yet smaller than a ping‑pong ball. They rest beneath thick leaves, quietly absorbing rain and dew, waiting for autumn frost to tinge their skins orange.

Apple‑orchard trees keep pace with the others, heavy with fruit upon their boughs. Bathed in morning sunshine, apples glow with touches of red‑tinged green. Drinking in crisp morning air, they grow steadily and build up sweetness. The bent‑back orchard owner, a long dry‑tobacco pipe tucked at his waist, paces round and round his orchard, anxiously awaiting harvest time.

I wander through this living natural scroll, breathing in cool morning breezes. I soak in nature’s beauty and behold the rich fruits borne of farmers’ labor and sweat. A thought wells up within me: this promises to be another abundant harvest year.