The blue slabs were draped in the morning dew and the blue prints were swirling in the dyeing workshop. The rafts of the early ship's maids were shredded, and the darts of Wenchang Pavilion, the steam of the teahouse, and the lens of the tourists were rubbed into the sparkling light. The best thing is to stay at Xizha: when the lanterns are on, the river suddenly becomes a flowing warm jade. Open the carved wooden windows, the guitar sound of the bar on the other side is mixed with pingtan, and under the stone bridge, the nightingale is stealing the wine from the yellow wine workshop. At six o'clock in the morning, in the empty alley, only the grunt of the soy milk pot should be accompanied by the wind bell in front of the old post office.