在这片气候干旱之地生活了二十多年，我对春天的期盼，大概始于2017年的那个春天。那年冬雨充沛，唤醒了沉睡十年的种子。山峦仿佛一夜之间苏醒、沸腾——漫山遍野的罂粟花与各色野花，在青翠茂密的山坡上摇曳生姿--原来这里的春天也可以这么美。自此以后，我便年年盼春，期待那样的盛景再现。

去年从感恩节到新年，连绵大雨，让人对春心生希望-- 以为只要冬雨充盈，今春一定绚烂。然而，当春天真正来临，这份期待却被现实击碎——今年热得太早，二三月间气温已攀至八九十度。干燥而狂烈的山风，如同一台强劲的抽湿机，不过数日，便将积蓄的水分一扫而空。很快，青草枯黄，远望山峦，没有青绿没有生机。

不久，又听闻南加三月有两名登山者被响尾蛇咬死，其中一个就发生在我们以前常去的山谷里。有人还在网上发自己在附近山里拍到的响尾蛇视频——尾巴摇动，发出滋滋声响。那一刻，恐惧悄然滋生，我再也没有走进山谷的念头。

好花不常开，好景不常在。来日，也并必方长。

三月底四月初，朋友圈却频频传来故乡江南的春意。于是，在这80度上下的燥热春日里，我隔着屏幕凝望那一抹嫩绿——一边享受，一边想象，几分恍惚，几分怀旧。

或许，再过几年该退休了，挑一个春天回去看看。

人生兜兜转转，有得有失。转眼之间，春已去。

下面这张照片是朋友前不久去乐清雁荡山附近的筋竹涧拍的。这是怎样的一种绿啊：）

两三年没有好好唱歌了，好像只在去年儿童节，应邀参加“高山流水”活动时唱过一首。近日有心学了《丁香花》，找出十分老旧的手机录了下来（只有那只手机里有全民K歌），算是2026年的第一首歌，谨此留念。

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When the miles after miles of wild flowers erupted on the lushly verdant slopes of the valley that spring, I happened to hike gratifyingly there, looking at the breathtaking mountains with a bird's view from the top. It was 2017, an once-in-a-decade unexpectancy after abundant rainfall in the preceding winter. 

Spring, the most picturesque season with flower blooms and velvet green from my childhood, becomes a distant memory after moving to this arid sunny land. For decades, it is almost forgotten --had it not been revived by the stunning beauty eyewitnesses that year. 

“Spring here could be just as beautiful!“,  I murmured to myself at the sight then,  embraced by the equally soft spring wind from a different valley. 

And because of this, I have longed for its return ever since. In the years that ensued, I prayed for bountiful winter rains, the only big rainy season, and my yearnings for good spring waxed and waned along with them. 

Last winter did not fail us. The heavy rain pounded the land, resulting in King tides on the coast in early January and the appearance of green on mountains later in the month. But the unexpected warm temperatures and dry gusts soon evaporated the landscape. The green faded and soon retreated to the scorch of the merciless sun. 

Then stories of two hikers bitten to death Were spread in the social media. I know I wouldn't venture out this time to the valley we once frequented, and that spring is nowhere to be seen.

*******Revised by Chatgpt:

When miles upon miles of wildflowers erupted across the lush, verdant slopes of the valley that spring, I happened to be there, hiking and taking in the breathtaking mountains from above. It was 2017—an unexpected, once-in-a-decade spectacle brought on by the abundant rains of the preceding winter.

Spring, once the most picturesque season of my childhood, with its blossoms and velvet greenery, had long since faded into a distant memory after I moved to this arid, sun-drenched land. For two decade, it was almost forgotten—until that year, when its beauty returned so vividly before my eyes.

“Spring here can be just as beautiful,” I murmured to myself, embraced by the gentle breeze drifting through a different valley.

Since then, I have longed for its return. In the years that followed, I found myself hoping for generous winter rains—the only true rainy season here—and my anticipation for spring rose and fell with them.

Last winter did not disappoint. Heavy rains drenched the land, bringing king tides to the coast in early January and a flush of green to the mountains soon after. But the warmth came too quickly, and dry winds swept through, draining the life from the landscape. The green faded, retreating under the relentless blaze of the sun.

Then came unsettling stories on social media—two hikers reportedly bitten to death. I knew I would not venture out this time. Besides, spring, it seemed, had once again slipped out of reach.