Wang Mojie

At this moment, I stood on the site of the beacon at the highest point of Wusheling Mountain, and suddenly understood why the ancients wanted to create the word "snow" on the slip. Two thousand years ago, when the soldiers wrote this word on the wooden basket with a brush, the snow of the Qilian Mountains was overflowing their faded armor, just like the fine snow that swept over my scarf at this moment, with a silky cold touch.

On the fifth day of the Lunar New Year, there was a sudden snowfall, goose feathers fluttering, and the wheel prints on the mountain road were soon covered with fresh snow. Those merchants who carried wool over the ridge pass, Han envoys who held scepters, and Hu merchants in the Western Regions who jingled camel bells all left footprints of different shades in the snow foam in the sky. The mountain wind swept through the withered yellow stalks, blowing the snow flakes into flying streamers, and I saw Zhang Qian's festival disappearing in the snow and fog.

As he turned the ridge, a ruined enemy platform loomed out of the snow. In the mottled rammed earth wall, you can faintly see the wheat straw thrown in by the soldiers during the ramming, and those golden fragments of time are gently trembling in the snow particles at this moment. Suddenly I remembered the fine sand on the shore, and the ripples swept by the white waves were somewhat similar to the folds of the snowfield in front of me. It's just that there are a few more stubborn vegetation here, and the bones like ink are drawn in the snow.

In the distance, a pine tree glows blue in the afternoon. The branches bent by the snow bounce up from time to time, raising fine snow like broken jade, quite a distant artistic conception of Wei Yingwu's "empty mountain pine nuts falling".

On the way down the mountain, a snowflake fell into the collar. The snow in Wusheling Ridge is still drifting, and each piece has a different verse written on it.