离别乡头，思绪万千

窗外的阳光透过车窗洒进来，我望着窗外飞逝的风景，心中泛起一丝淡淡的忧愁，这 already不是第一次了，每次离家时，乡头的景象都会在我脑海中反复浮现,仿佛它们还深深印在记忆深处。

乡头的老房子依旧 stands there, like a silent witness to the passage of time. The old wooden door still creaks softly when I think about it, as if inviting me to step inside. The yard is still tiled with gravel, and the old trees, like the ones I used to climb as a child, still stand tall and strong. There's an old oak tree in the yard, its branches still reaching towards the sky, providing shade on those hot summer days. The little stream that used to run through the yard is now a distant memory, but I still love the sound of the water trickling down the rocks.

I remember the old well. It was the lifeline of the village, the source of water for all the houses. The well was small, with a narrow hole, but it was deep enough to provide the necessary supply. Every morning, the old man would come out of the house, carrying buckets of water. He would fill them up and leave them by the side of the road for the travelers. I used to help him carry the water when I was younger, and now I can only watch from a distance. But the well still stands, a silent testament to the days when life was simpler.

The old kitchen is another scene that comes to mind. It's a small, cluttered room with wooden floors and a tiled ceiling. The walls are lined with old photographs and family memories. My mother used to cook in this kitchen, and her smells always filled the air. The little wooden table in the corner is where I used to sit and watch her cook, my eyes fixed on the rolling pin as it shaped the dough. Now it's just a dusty relic, but I still love the taste of her cooking.

The old barn is another place that brings back memories. It's a large, rectangular building with a steeply pitched roof. It used to be the storage house for all the village's grain and vegetables. Now it's empty, but I still love the smell of hay and grain that it used to have. The old stable door still rusts in the corner, a reminder of the days when we used to milk the cows in the morning. The cows themselves are gone now, but their memory lingers.

As I drive away, I look back at the village, and I can't help but feel a sense of loss. The old houses are gone, but their memories remain. The village has changed a lot, but deep down, I know that the heart of the village is still there. It's in the old trees, in the old well, in the old kitchen, and in the old barn. It's in the whispers of the wind, in the sound of the stream, and in the smell of the hay. It's a part of me that I can't fully forget, even though I'm no longer living there.

I take a deep breath and step into the train, feeling a little lighter, a little more free. But deep down, I know that I'll return. I'll come back to the village, to the old houses, to the memories that have shaped me. And when I do, I'll bring with me the love and respect that I've learned from my time here.