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Grandma Yang may be really confused. She felt that the sky suddenly turned dark today, and the whole process was almost negligible. It got dark quickly, unpreparedly, and frighteningly fast. This scene seemed familiar: more than fifty years ago, she did When she was a girl, she was peeing in the valley in the east of the village, and was bumped head-on by the dumbfounded old Yang. Just like today, she only felt empty in her head, and the sky suddenly turned dark. Although she stood up, she couldn't lift her pants. The darkness was as sudden as now. What she never dreamed of was that her wife, Lao Yangtou, was still very angry at noon, chasing chickens and dogs, pointing at mulberry trees and scolding locust trees, reclining in a wicker chair under the eaves and smoking, and shivering, he curled up in bed and turned into a sick seedling with only air coming out but no air coming in.

The Nagarjuna Bazi, sleeping in the Wumeng Mountains, lit up one after another with the sparse crowing of chickens. Along with a few brisk and loud dog barks, the coughing sounds of the elderly also sounded chaotically, like a tragic symphony. On the bumpy dirt road, more and more people went out for morning work. The man was carrying a pole, tied with a rope, and carrying a sickle. It seemed that he was either cutting grass or chopping firewood. The women usually carry a big bamboo basket on their backs and have to work every day for the few pigs at home, which are the only source of income. The annual fertilizer money, charcoal money, oil, salt, sauce, vinegar, and tea money are all carried on the few pigs. Not only that, but what's even more terrible is the annual student money, which catches people here off guard. The growth rate of pigs can never keep up with the increase in student tuition fees.