The countryside in poems is always of a desolate beauty. But my version of countryside is earthier, wheat and potato and neighbors’ chicken laying eggs. My hometown, a tiny village by the Yi River, is not yet accessible to cars as mud would grow over ankle when it rains. The aged habitants can’t even read, while the young, owning cellphone and motorcycle, dream of the outside world. As wheat grows, all that come from the land shall return to the soil.