When I abruptly wake up from a dream, there's no light outside the window. That delicate kitten, full of childish play, runs back and forth indoors, its dragging sound blending into a continuous chorus. It seems like it's bravely confronting an army of warriors!

Don't need to check the clock; I'd guess it's around five a.m. – isn't that what you're supposed to hear? I clearly heard the distant crowing of chickens, rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern. It's a truly living clock!

People are prone to being pulled back by fleeting memories – like the rooster's morning call, a significant event.

Childhood in the countryside: the sounds of chickens and dogs, just like in every home. Generations relied on these sounds to mark the hours, rising early to work. The cycle of life continued, driving oxen to cultivate day after day. When we moved to the city, the sounds of chickens became rare. City dwellers don't raise chickens, and neither are they allowed to. Even in my relatively small city, where I can't afford a high-rise apartment with excellent soundproofing, in a suburban area where you can see the smoke from the countryside, I can hear the hustle and bustle of the city with my right ear, and the barking of dogs and the crowing of chickens with my left ear. Because I've drunk water from the countryside wells and eaten grain from the fields, I don't need to consult three generations of family history. I am still a farmer, with mud still clinging to my legs, but I love these rustic things. Even if I wash with soap a thousand times, the earth's imprint will remain, and my heart will always yearn for it,