渐渐地,人们不再谈起风,这一次似乎真的要将风遗忘了。但是人们错了,因为风已经扎根在这里,和那百年的老树、老井,生生不息的炊烟一样,正在慢慢成为乡村的魂魄。一人们都叫他风。风是一个半疯子,每日在村子里嘻哈着脸,悠闲逛荡,真的像风一样。只是这风着实是有些恼人的,就像患了神经衰弱症的人越想着睡去,越能听见它不停地拍打着窗棂;就像早起的人刚刚打扫完院子,堆了一堆垃圾,又被它吹散开来,使刚刚洁净的院子毁于一旦,人们索性丢了扫帚,忿忿地骂一句:这该死的风,来得真不是时候! Gradually, people no longer talk about the wind, this time seems to really want to forget the wind. But people are wrong because the wind has taken root here, just like the old trees, the old wells, the ever-present smoke of cigarettes, are slowly becoming the soul of the country. Everyone calls him the wind. Wind is a half-crazy, hip-hop face in the village every day, leisurely wandering, really like the wind. Just the wind is actually a bit annoying, just as people who suffer from neurasthenia more sleep, the more we can hear it kept slamming windows and doors; just like the early riser just finished cleaning the yard, piled up a pile of garbage , Was blown away by it again, so that just clean the yard destroyed, people simply lost the broom, cursed indignantly: This damn wind, it really is not the time!