By the wetlands of Linquan River in high summer, the lotus fragrance drifts over—slowly, unhurriedly. At first it is but a wisp, brushing past the tip of the nose and then gone; stand still for a moment, and it gathers around you layer by layer—crisp and cool, yet warm with the residue of sunlight and moisture. The lotus leaves spread like a green silk brocade, with blossoms tucked within—pink and white, half-open, half-shut. When the wind stirs, the scent grows richer; when it falls still, the fragrance settles into the background as a subtle undertone. At dusk, it becomes even more distinct, as if rinsed clean. Even after you have walked far away, the scent follows, lingering faintly on your lapel—the entire summer seems to have bloomed within this single breath of wind.

　　（通讯员 曲馨宇）