一瓢月色小时,奶奶端着一瓢头金子的麦粒儿,换回一斤八个飘着香甜的月饼。这八百年前的月色,揣着清纯和质朴,乡土味儿,民情、民风味儿,一夜之间,返璞归真。擦黑儿的风,绕过村口的那棵老槐树,一猫腰扎进阔阔的玉米林。母亲,撵上秋后的微凉,迷失在大腹便便的田野……夜,压在肩上。月,悬在空中。地里的农活还没干完,大人是没有时间顾及中秋了。只有孩子们,望着月儿,惦记起月饼的事儿。在父亲的眼里,他的孩子永远都是玉 The moonlight hours, my grandmother carrying a scoop of gold wheat child, in exchange for a pound of eight floating sweet moon cake. This eight hundred years ago, moonlight, Chuaizhe pure and rustic, native taste, public sentiment, folk flavor, overnight, back to nature. Wipe the darker wind, bypassing the old tree in the village entrance, a cat waist into the wide cornfield. Mother, 微 autumn cool, lost in the potbellied fields ... Night, pressure on his shoulders. Month, hanging in the air. The farm work has not finished, the adults do not have time to take into account the Mid-Autumn Festival. Only children, looking at children, remember the moon cake things. In the eyes of his father, his children will always be jade