The mountain is not high, the fairy is famous, the water is not deep, the dragon is spiritual, the village is not beautiful, and the wheat is corresponding. -Inscription May is a harvest season for Mang, and everyone is busy and happy in this season. The wheat in May is yellow, ripe and rippling, like a string of golden sweat, like an endless golden ocean. The breeze is like a wave, and birds are like branches.

Under the nourishment of the rain, the wheat poked its head out from the embrace of Mother Earth, and grew up little by little under the careful care of the farmer's uncle. When Miss Xia brushed the wheat field, the wheat leaked a golden smile like a lovely girl. What's that noise? Oh! It turned out that the farmers' uncles had already harvested wheat in the field, so I walked near the wheat field. The weather in summer is scorching hot, and I soon stood in the sun and sweated, while the farmers' uncles in the wheat field were harvesting wheat under the scorching sun. At this time, I can't help but think of an ancient poem I learned: weeding at noon, sweating profusely, but every meal is hard. May is unusual in the countryside because of labor. Maybe in the countryside, it has branded a piece of land that belongs to it. In the countryside in May, there is a smell of wheat. In the countryside in May, there are smiling faces of farmers. The wheat in May is full of smiling faces, and the wind in May is soft and gentle.

This is May, a special labor season.

2. 500-word composition in the wheat field of primary school.

Looking at the clear sky, several larks shuttled through the faint clouds. In the distance, the sky and the earth interweave into a colorful line. "That should be the end of life." I asked my grandmother who bent down to find something in the wheat field. Even after many years, the scene of me sitting cross-legged on the wheat harvester is still vivid, not only picturesque, but also the past.

Almost every time I was a child. My grandfather drives a wheat harvester, and my grandmother picks things up next to me. I sat next to my grandfather and packed the car. When the car started, I clapped my hands happily and tried to press a button dishonestly. At this time, grandpa always holds my little hand without trace and pushes it aside with a smile.

Golden wheat has been with me year after year. Grandparents accompany wheat year after year. Time moistens my body. Grandpa and I can't sit in the carriage. When I grow up, I can only stand in the wheat field, looking at the wheat harvester with a touch of nostalgia and reluctance, looking at my grandfather who is getting thinner in the carriage, and following my parents back to Yantai.

It was not until grandpa died of stomach cancer that tears flooded all the nerves. It was not until five years later that he dared to turn it into words, engraved on the shore of the long river of time and printed on the golden wheat field.

"Grandma, grandpa should be watching us on that colorful line, right?" As I spoke, I bent my right arm and wanted to say hello to grandpa. Suddenly, I came to my senses and put down my right arm unnaturally. The things in my mouth are salty, a bit like tears.

3. 500-word composition in the wheat field of primary school.

Today is Sunday. My family and I went to Nong 'an and came to the endless wheat fields. There are many evergreen pine and maple trees around the wheat field. Pines and cypresses are like tall guards, guarding the wheat fields all the year round and never stopping. Maple is like a little girl who inspires pines and cypresses. Every autumn, its red and yellow maple leaves are like the light specially given for the encouragement of pine and cypress.

My family was walking on the path next to the wheat field. Looking ahead, I saw many people harvesting wheat. Although I can't see their faces, I think they must be very happy, because this year's wheat is growing surprisingly well, and the smell of harvest still wafts from all directions from time to time.

Walking into the field, the wheat around me waved to me in the breeze, as if to tell me how much sweat and labor the farmer uncle had paid for them. I thought, "Yes, there is a saying that spring sowing is busy in summer, and autumn harvest is stored in winter. For a whole year, farmers' uncles spent too much time and energy to grow crops well. Whenever autumn comes, the farmer's uncle is very happy. Looking at these crops, he felt that his previous hard work was not in vain.

Time is like water, the sun is setting, and we will say goodbye to the wheat field soon. When I left, I picked up some fallen leaves on the ground, spelled out a picture on paper as a souvenir, and then reluctantly left the endless wheat field.

Golden wheat fields are the most beautiful in my eyes! I love golden wheat fields!