Take a look at the picture, and then write something about it

The hill is in Zhejiang, a province of east China.

To please your eye, here's another photo:

Here is the first part of the story told to us by my father's father about his father.
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We knew when it was Spring we would go up the mountain to look for the flower mushrooms, but we had to wait until it was really Spring. We would know it was really Spring when our father told us it was Spring. He said he only knew by listening for the sound of the flying cuckoo.

Not the first cuckoo, he said that might be a foolish bird who came to the mountains too soon. That bird would sit shivering in the bushes crying out. Not the second cuckoo, that might be a bird who was trying to be a show-off by flying ahead of all the rest. That bird would be on a high place on the rocks, singing out but getting no answers. The third cuckoo, father said, would fly to the hillside calmly, find a place to rest among the flowering bushes and then, after resting, begin to fly up and down the hillside, singing as he flew. Soon there would be other cuckoos calling to him, singing with him. Whenever he heard the song of the flying cuckoo, father would tell us it was really Spring and time to climb the mountain.

So we would gather our poles and baskets and, even though it was Spring, our heavy coats to go to look for the Flower Mushroom. It is a strange thing, not a flower, very small and very hard to find underneath the bushes on the mountain. We had to start at the bottom of the hill and carefully look under each bush to see if there were any growing there. If I had to guess, I would say you had to look under a hundred bushes before you found one little bunch of mushrooms and you had to have many little bunches before there would be enough to cook and add to a meal. I was not a very good mushroom hunter. I liked to eat them, especially when they were fresh in the Spring, but even better later, after they had been sliced and dried like little thin pieces of black paper. You could eat them dried or throw them into a soup right before serving. They tasted to me like the mountain.

I loved that mountain, going up it, listening to all the sounds of the birds and the wind rustling the flowers. That was probably why I was not a good mushroom hunter. My head was full of everything there was to see and hear. I wanted to learn everything about the mountain right away, to sit with my father as he listened for the song of the cuckoos. I wanted to run up the hillside to the rocky top and climb up the cliffs to stand on the top.

Now, I am tired of telling this story and I must sleep. Tomorrow or perhaps the day after that, I will tell you about the Spring the cuckoo did not come until my father called the cuckoo.

Or you can dream up the rest of the story for yourself then you can tell me what you imagined happened.
Joe(ah, lovely mountain, ah, beautiful flowers)Nation

Thanks.

I will read your reply later because I've now travelled to another city and the time for staying in this hotel is expensive.