Each of us, everyone has their own homeland. Home is sweet star fruit bunches, is home to the best memories in life. Still have to go away, never people remember about the fatherland.
I grew up in the delta, where the straight-wing aircraft field. And maybe you always rice fields Countryside attractive pull people away from thinking about where their native land. The spring morning and stood at the top of the village, the fields that looked like so much fun! Mild spring breeze blowing, waves undulating paddy intermittent, episodic chase remain far apart. A flock of white storks flying wings outstretched over, gleaming against the blue sky. Especially when the farmers go to the grass, fields many questions throb singing ca .. Each colorful butterflies colorful toy with green rice mats. In the dream season is the ripening rice, if someone stood in distant look back will see a vast sea of gold. Scattered across the field was the scene farmers are harvesting rice, conical hats on copper.
Write an essay described a beautiful view of the hometown that I like the most
Afternoon until lightly monsoons blow, rice flutters whispering murmur as talk to each other. The receiver afternoon, fog covered the field, looks away as a smoke screen thin, white thanks thanks. In the morning, the fog melted away leaving the glistening dew on the leaf.
Until the sun heating up the field, the sun's rays or fog shines almost innumerable tiny pearls, shone with colorful light beams, all seem to look very beautiful.
In the neighborhood children, brothers and sisters have gone away, who visit the country every time a field visit. They avidly watched the sparrows foraging flying carpet is the rice. Occasionally, they would pass down then soar sky gurgling call each other.
I love the village fields em, love em homeland. Here, I was born and raised. Now the delta NAV has made his "iron buffaloes" tape running in the field. High voltage glow villages. Life is moving on the path of happiness.
