Winter, January, it is cold. The wick wind blew. Bach Hac junction is sunk in the rain. The black flag in front of the Han army post fell like a crow’s feather dripping with water. The soldiers at the station shrugged off. The cold wind is like flowing into the bone marrow and needle rain stinging the naked body of the people of Giao Chi on the river. FISHING CROCS SHOES CROCBAND. Hair is on the nape of their backs, they stand in front of the noses of small boats, with their legs turned half a circle, swinging their arms, throwing nets.