I returned to that countryside, watching the village scenery in the season, closing my eyes to take a deep breath, feeling the familiar scent of spreading around 9: 00/3: 08 South An energy that runs in the body gives people a feeling of being close, a familiar Mansian scent that only those born from the village can feel. That scent named "Huong Rice". In the moment immersed in the scene, the soul lang to the front of the breeze with the aroma of ripe rice, I remember the days of childhood, and my father raised the harvest season. Brand a new day begins. On the east side of the horizon to bring a beautiful pink color

. My mother was rushing to pack the ripe potatoes and still suspected to smoke. From the corner of the kitchen, he took out a bike, I slept along, climbing to the car to let her father carry the copper. All the roads were busy with passing people, the monk's houseman pulled each other to reap
The sound of footsteps crunching on the sandy soil, the sound of a cow's car ran, the sound of people talking, talking to each other about the crop this year ... the sun begins to be high, the sun is gradually getting harsh, people Come on, who is sweaty, everyone hustle, quickly reap it and carry the paddy for drying. I am a mother who harvested rice, the sickle of her mother "spotted" every time a fast. The rice cottones are ranked, albotic, placed on the jagged rains just cut. From the shore, Dad ran down to put rice into a bunch of rice and bring rice to the car to go home. Such a trip, each trip to each other. Rice is transported, filled with lane to wait for the plump. While waiting, I ran into the house to hold, my mother, at the time of the sieve, the NIA,
.. to prepare for the plucking stage. Sunny season like scorching, even though she was tired, everyone tried to make it to take advantage of exposing a little sunny sun. From outside the voice of "phong phach" of the threshing machine and laughter, the call of every people. Hastily ran out I saw my father's father and rice to enter the threshing machine, where to go, in the rice to go there, across the road, the machine was released with straw, the substance into a high pile near the roof. Standing right next to the pile of rice just plucking, scratching the remaining rice stalks, on this side, I contacted and moved the paddy baskets for the internal interior to dry in front of the home. Just like that, each person always hands always vacated. It seems that when you see the work of labor is reaped, everyone is more enthusiastic and forgetting the fatigue, hot, the season, from the village above to the neighborhood, the house is full of gold. On off the roads, straws have shouted across all roads, covering dykes. I joined the children in the neighborhood to play bustling, we played hide, climbing, hiding behind the straw that straw, straw all over her clothes, hair head. In the afternoon, the afternoon invited each other to run into the field, the field stretched, as a golden inlaidly remained only the rains, the straw is burning ... the sun slows down, where the house corner of the house White chimneys are still fragrant. From the beginning of the village, the smell of rice has brought the fragrant to the complex that fluttered ... white rice seeds, radiating the sweet aroma that few people learned after those rice beans are sweat, throttle Figs of farmers day and night to sell the face for the back of the back ... back to the town of Tri Hoa, I don't forget to bring the memories of a childhood. Among the surface of life, closing your eyes to the memories of the peaceful place, the image of heavy gold fields of rice, sometimes in the wind of the incense ... like Quynh

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