Early Summer in Hulunbuir

Early summer in Hulunbuir is like a painting gently unveiled by the wind. The grass has not yet reached the lushness of midsummer, but it has shed the tender green of spring, resembling a soft, verdant carpet stretching across undulating hills to the horizon. The birch trees have just sprouted new leaves, and sunlight filters through the gaps, casting dappled patterns on the mossy ground. When horse hooves splash through the streams, the droplets reflect the trembling image of the entire grassland. In the morning mist, the nomadic herders' caravan of carts winds like a long snake, and the jingling copper bells awaken the slumbering Sarilang flowers. These small orange-red blossoms suddenly peek out from the waves of grass, as if someone had accidentally spilled a palette of colors. Smoke wafting from the skylights of yurts carries the scent of milk, mingling with the rising mist from the Hetao region, forming a gauzy veil. Occasionally, a Demoiselle Crane that hasn't migrated south glides by, its wings slicing through the fog to reveal the distant, shimmering silver ribbon of the Ergun River. Night rains often arrive silently at midnight, leaving the grass tips adorned with dew like stars by morning. The black nose of a shepherd dog, dusted with dandelion seeds, chases butterflies near marmot burrows, spinning into a whirlwind. When the clay jars of fermented mare's milk are buried by the cool riverbank, the cuckoo's call becomes a natural clock for counting the return of the herds. Lying on a fallen tree trunk and gazing at drifting clouds, one might hear the deep rumble of ice layers breaking beneath the earth—a sound of the permafrost thawing, as the grassland's very bones stretch and awaken.