从前的春天,人们总是先从厚厚的棉衣里探出头来,听到窗户外的鸟又耐不住寂寞了。河里的水已经禁锢了一冬,干脆起些风吧。风吹尽了角落里的积雪,风吹起了地上的风筝,风吹出了去年回家的落叶,风吹走了瑟瑟发抖、把手揣在怀里取暖的身影。这时若再来些雨,不必像牛毛、像花针、像细丝,只要滴沥到田野里,便能想象得出种子生根发芽的声音。 In the past spring, people always stuck their heads out of their thick cotton-padded clothes. When they heard the birds outside the window, they couldn’t resist the loneliness. The water in the river has been confined for a long time. The wind blows the snow in the corner. The wind blows the kites on the ground. The wind blows away the fallen leaves that came home last year. The wind blows away the shadows that tremble and heat in your arms. If we come back with some rain, we do not need to look like cow hair, like flower needles, like filaments, but just dripping into the fields to imagine the sound of seed rooting.