In the cold season, I can't help but think of the warmth of my hometown and recall the twinkling fishing lanterns swaying between the water and the sky.

My hometown is a water town. In the old days, every household in the ancient town had a fishing lantern. Most of the fishing lanterns were horseshoe-shaped ones. The upper part was a handle, the middle part was a windshield glass cover, and the lower part was a horseshoe-shaped iron oil pot. Hanging in the pitch-black boat awning, they became a scene in the water town in the old days. On a windless dark night, the water town was like a piece of batik. Looking from the shore, the fishing lanterns were dotted here and there, glittering and translucent, with a tinge of light red in the orange color, carrying the charm of paintings from the Song and Yuan dynasties.

When the wind blew, "The wind arises at the end of the duckweed, and waves form in the gentle ripples." At this time, the fishing lanterns were full of sentiment. The boat was like a horse in the wind, and the boatman who knew the water well was like a rider. The smell of the water foam was like the fragrance of the grass on the pasture, activating the ancient genes. Looking from afar, the fishing lanterns swayed in the misty waves, flickering and looking ethereal, full of ancient charm.

Sometimes, when it rained or snowed, the boatmen who were well-versed in the waterways, just like the people in the alleys who were familiar with every alley, would find a harbor to take shelter.

The harbor was warm, with aquatic plants such as reeds, red smartweed, and calamus growing there, which could keep out the wind and cold and bring comfort to people. At this time, the fishing lanterns hanging in the boat awning were just like a loyal companion, quietly accompanying you. "In the blackness of night, a fishing lantern is seen; a single glow like a firefly in the gloom. A gentle breeze stirs up ripples on the water; the light scatters like stars across the river." On a long, cold night, sitting by a clay stove, wrapped in a quilt, bathed in the clear light of the lanterns, immersed in the vast silence, sipping a pot of green tea, and reading an ancient book, one could enjoy the life of a hermit.

Although the misty waters were cold, the lights were so dear!

One year, I went to the lake with my father to check on the fish. That large expanse of water was two or three miles away from the ancient town. At midnight, we stopped rowing in a wild harbor. In a half-awake and half-asleep state, I felt a strange sound under the boat. It was like a distant call, like an ancient song, floating in the misty waves and reaching straight to the sky. It seemed that the underwater world and the night sky had become one. The wooden boat on which my father and I were sitting was just like a small spaceship, ready to drift into the vast outer space at any time.

Seeing that I was timid, my father took down the fishing lantern and held it over the water. Following the direction of his finger, I discovered that underwater was simply a world of fish. They were like a colorful cloud, just like a group of water beasts, gathering under the boat. Their gills opened and closed, spitting out strings of pearl-like bubbles. Some fish were like submarines lurking in the water; some were like floating leaves. Those strange sounds turned out to be the sounds of the fish feeding. In the eyes of fishermen, raising a lake of fish was no different from farmers raising a slope of sheep, a flock of chickens, or a pen of rabbits.

The light attracted more fish to swim over. There were silver-white ones, golden-red ones, dark-green ones, orange-yellow ones, spotted ones, in a riot of colors. I saw my father unhurriedly shovel out large pieces of feed from the bottom of the boat and throw them into the lake. Immediately, waves rose on the water surface. The fish crowded together, gobbling up the food. From time to time, fish jumped out of the water, making a pleasant splashing sound. The lake water, stirred up, was filled with the fragrance of algae.

I don't know how many nights my father went down to the lake with a lantern. In the dead of night, my mother, worried about him, would carry a lantern and stand on the broken bridge in the ancient town. She cupped her hands like a trumpet and shouted towards the water and the sky. Her voice was like a night bird flying close to the water. Soon, a point of light got closer. My father held the fishing lantern in the air and waved it three times. When my mother saw it, she also waved it three times. Understanding each other, my father continued to check on the fish while my mother went home relieved.

In the water town, fish had their own language, and lanterns had their own way of communicating.

"An old fisherman and a woodcutter on the islet by the river, accustomed to seeing the autumn moon and the spring breeze. Happy to meet over a pot of unstrained wine. How many things of the past and present are all turned into idle talk." Meeting on the water, the lanterns shining on each other were a kind of warmth for each other. "Several fishing lanterns lean against the ancient shore, and on the broken bridge, the dew drips from the phoenix trees." It was a place to rest after "letting the boat go as it pleases and sailing across the vast expanse of water", a tender embrace of water and fire.

Nowadays, when I go back to my hometown, it's hard to see the fishing lanterns anymore. The smell of diesel has diluted the fragrance of algae. The chugging motorboats have replaced the wooden boats, and the incandescent lamps have replaced the small fishing lanterns. The cold snow light sweeps across the lake surface, and the surrounding misty waters are completely in view. My father has long passed away, and I am drifting in a distant place. The water town, the broken bridge, the wooden boat, the reed thickets, the fish shoals, the ancient shore, the dark night, and the old dreams were all illuminated by the fishing lanterns. The clear and gentle glimmer penetrated the fleeting years, warmed my heart, and became the lingering homesickness that I can't get rid of.