蛾眉月,晦暝。谷仓,如从丘陵上冒出的蘑菇,鳞次栉比,影惶惶。秋蝉,嚣声渐稀,寒霜捂紧田野,稻茬似被剃,填补了土壤的坑洼。少年蹲坐在田间,迎风摇摆的狗尾巴草,搔人痒。望天,空而邃,像极了母亲的眼眸。这里不是城,村外的窑厂和机耕路是唯一和城有关的乡村物件,他也极少踏足。更多的时候,他牵着牛,或赶着鹅,走向草地,杨树婆娑,风吹叶片作响,哗哗哗、沙沙沙,还有鹅鸣和牛哞声。这是乡野之声,而他也仅仅只是一个乡村少年。 Crescent Moon, dark 暝. Barn, such as mushrooms emerge from the hills, row upon row, shadow panic. Autumn cicadas, clamor gradually, cold frost tight field, rice stubble was shaved, to fill the soil potholes. Juvenile squatting in the field, the dog’s tail swinging in the wind, scratching itchy. Hope days, empty and mysterious, like the mother’s eyes. It is not a city here. Outside the village, kilns and tractor roads are the only city-related rural objects, and he seldom sets foot on foot. More often, he led the cattle, or catch the goose, to the grass, poplar whirlwind, leaves blowing sound, rushing Wow, rustle sand, as well as goose and ox. This is the voice of country, and he is just a country boy.