Light Spots Fall on the Green of Qingqing Campus

That spot of light originally leaked through the dense layers of leaves of the old locust tree. It's not a bright light, just some tiny, dancing light spots, scattered on the ground, scattered on this green carpet. They are like some very shy and very lively elves. Taking advantage of the wind, they squeeze out from the gaps in the leaves with all their strength. After just a flash, they lie safely on the top of the grass. This green is full of moisture and heavy green. It's as if the entire spring rain and summer sunshine have brewed it inside, making it so thick that it can't be dissolved. When the light spots fall on it, they don't look as hot and white as they do elsewhere; when they are lined and dyed by this deep green, they actually become warm and moist, like cool and flowing jade, trembling slightly on the grass blades. When you look closely, you will see that the light spot is not stationary. The waist of the grass blade moves very slightly, and it slides down along the veins of the leaf, and suddenly jumps to another leaf. As a result, the quiet green became alive with breathing and pulse due to the jumping of countless light spots. In the distance is the red brick teaching building, standing silently, like a kind-hearted elder, watching the play of green and light. A group of three or five teenagers walked through the light and shadow, chatting and laughing, and a brightness and a shadow suddenly passed over their white shirts. The light spot seemed to be contaminated by their laughter, and it danced more and more cheerfully. I suddenly felt that these spots of light and green seemed to be the oldest and freshest poem on this campus; they were the passing years; they were the foundation of submergence; they were the endless youth.