割灼日,镰刀。阳光沸腾了庄稼四季的味道,麦田地一年的希冀,跃上了父亲的镰刀。一镰下去,嚓——汗水,一滴……黄土地上的夏宴。从此,味道更厚重了,更香醇了。运麦田,是父亲的镰刀剔净毛发的孩子。麦捆,被父亲的汗水醉倒,一个个东倒西歪。将军般的父亲一手叉着弯腰,一手指挥着我们搬运麦捆,井然有序……夕阳将这凯旋的场面迅速拍成胶片——下班后托付给月亮冲洗,调皮的星星偷出几张特写镜头,和晚风悄悄地送进我的梦乡。 Cutting day, sickle. Sun boiling the taste of crops throughout the four seasons, wheat fields a year of hope, leapt to his father’s sickle. A sickle go, Cha - sweat, a drop ... ... yellow earth summer banquet. Since then, the taste is more heavy, more mellow. Wheat field, is his father’s scythe tick net hair children. Sheaves of wheat, drunk by his father’s sweat, one by one crooked. The general’s father, with his hand on his knees, bowed his hand and commanded us to carry the wheat bales in an orderly manner ... Sunset set this triumphant scene rapidly into a film - entrusted to the moon to wash after get off work, naughty stars stole several close-ups Lens, and the breeze quietly sent to my dreams.