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The sand by the river always carries a chill that cannot be washed away. It's not a bone-chilling kind, but a faint one that spreads up from the soles of your feet, making you feel that there is a layer of tranquility in this bustling world. From somewhere, the sound of Qiang flute came. The voice was dull and whimpering, as if it was drifting down the river from the Tang Dynasty, far away. It does not sing for you, it just blows its desolation, about Guanshan, about the bright moon, and about some partings that have long been forgotten. Listening, my heart becomes calm and empty. When I looked up, there were several pear trees beside the bank. The opening is just right, the white is so serious, but so thin. As soon as the wind comes, it falls to the ground, like a snow that can't wait for spring to be over. They don't compete with the peaches and plums for beauty, they just sit quietly for the world to see in the slightly cold air. The sound of the flute is of time, the pear blossoms are of the seasons, and the cold sand underfoot seems to be the eternal background that carries it all. Standing among these three things, I suddenly felt that I was just a grain of sand. I had heard a piccolo and watched a pear blossom for a moment.