风,卷着梦的香气,一阵一阵,撩得人难受。村头老杨树下,他蹲着,目光铸在密密匝匝的枝叶间。叶片上,昨夜的梦还在跳荡,金光灿灿,晃得人眼晕。抬手捋一把,那叶子全是钱,新崭崭香喷喷,揣进怀里,平素蔫软的腰杆硬是生生挺得笔直。身前,烟屁股滚了一地。最后一支抽尽,再把烟屁股捡起来,点燃,狠狠地补几口。心,也给灼得火烧火燎:这财,别人发得,我怎就发不得? Wind, the dream of rolling the volume, while a while, tease people uncomfortable. Under the old poplar in the village head, he squatted and cast his eyes on the foliage between the densely-turned turns. On the leaves, last night’s dream is still jumping, glittering, people dizzy halo. Raise his hand a,, that leaf is all money, new brand new fragrant, hides into his arms, usually soft waist is hard to stand still straight. In front of the cigarette butt roll one. The last one exhausted, then pick up the cigarette butt, lit, fiercely make a few mouthfuls. Heart, but also to burn the fire: this money, others made, how can I not send it?