A gentle breeze brushes the mountains, each gentle slope draped in a thick green carpet, countless tiny wildflowers embroidering themselves into colorful patterns, casually dotting this beautiful alpine meadow. Spherical green trees, like nests built by some bird, are firmly rooted in the earth, forming a village where birds live together. Under the gloomy sky, gray clouds hang heavy, as if about to fall, the grass darkened by the clouds blocking the sunlight. Past mid-afternoon, the sun finally dispels the thick clouds that have lingered for hours, casting light on the vast, boundless grassland.
The clear blue sky and light white clouds begin to float unimpeded over the grass, making it increasingly bright. Without the blue of the sky and the white of the clouds, the green of the grass loses its confidence and vitality, hiding in sorrow. Clear skies, gentle breeze, occasional drifting clouds, grazing sheep, and leisurely spinning windmills... these beautiful elements together form the highlight of this meadow. Stepping into the Windmill Mountain Meadow feels like entering a summer fairy tale world that Hayao Miyazaki forgot to finish.
We once stood on the top of Zhemo Mountain and saw a windmill road stretching infinitely to the east. Those windmills, rising and falling along the ridge, stood between the green mountains and blue sky, like ethereal hermits, enviable, making us want to follow them. Entering the Windmill Mountain, namely Binchuan Yangliucun Meadow, at a bend in the mountain road, I caught a glimpse of the city shrouded in light mist, realizing that I had unknowingly stepped into the distant place I had longed for, and I had already seen its appearance in many people's photos and videos.
Only when I place my eyes without obstruction between this earth and sky can I dare to pile up all beautiful words here, enough to build a room to house my soul. In fact, no matter whether the pictures and videos online are true or overly retouched, they still cannot fully convey the beauty here. So, come in person: the gentle grass, the lively wildflowers, the misty distant mountains, the sheep carrying the sunset, and the free birds in the camphor-like forests—all do their utmost to perfect this meadow.
We set up camp on a high ground near the grove, with a wide view, far from other humans and their noise and restlessness. From a low-lying area, a huge umbrella emitted fast-paced, rough music, out of tune with the scenery. We sat in the flowing green of the summer mountains, carefree, enjoying the Creator's selfless gifts. The flowing mountain wind blew unimpeded toward us, carrying the faint fragrance we had overlooked, magically turning smell into sight, allowing us to see in the distant haze that the blue, which seemed to reflect the sky, was not a clear spring but clusters of Cynoglossum amabile hiding in the woods.
Everything in the mountains is interesting. The children, having eaten and drunk their fill and played enough games at the camp, began running in all directions, searching for little joys hidden behind every horizon. They ran toward the distant scenery but also became part of it, growing into moving little flowers on the grass, waiting for the pouring sunlight and dew, hoping for a wild rabbit suddenly jumping out of the grass, or encountering a leisurely white horse swishing its tail, following it.
In the afternoon, the Windmill Mountain saw a continuous stream of sightseers. Cars lined up along the roadside, and the grass was dotted with human traces. The slope we were on also became lively, with drones buzzing in our ears. But what about the cattle and sheep? In hours, we hadn't seen a single one. As dusk approached, we ran far across the grass before we began to see a flock of sheep stretching in a line, grazing slowly forward like foaming waves. Perhaps they had gone farther to forage, in places we couldn't see or reach, where there was a meadow exclusively for them, off-limits to humans.
We followed the sheep, only from a distance, watching them as if nothing else existed, watching their leisurely contentment, watching among them a rare gray-white goat, tall and sturdy, with symmetrical curled horns, avoiding human screams and ecstasy. After they swept through, the grass returned to calm, the wildflowers straightened their frail bodies, almost intact, occasionally missing a few petals.
Under the sunset, the sheep left the lowland, slowly moving up the slope under the windmills, into the woods, toward the coming night. The children once again walked toward the distant horizon. Clouds unfurled on the other side, like waves splashing from under their feet. The huge blades of the windmills were fish floats, waiting to be cast into the sky by them, to fish a perfect summer night.
