初冬的清晨,推开门,一股寒气迎面袭来。我不禁打了一个寒颤,急忙又钻进房里,穿上毛衣,提上篮子去买菜。大地披上了一层白纱,狂风乱舞,落叶飘飞。街头有一位年近七十的清洁工,饱经风霜的脸上,让无情的岁月刻下了一道道皱纹,那双手就像从土中拔出来的笋根,紧紧握住扫柄,不时地颤抖。 In the early morning of the early winter, the door was opened and a chill came on. I could not help but shuddered and hurried back into my room, put on a sweater and put on a basket to buy food. The earth was covered with a layer of white yarn, wild winds fluttering, and fallen leaves fluttering. There was a nearly seventy-year-old cleaner on the street, and on his weather-beaten face, a wrinkle was engraved in the ruthless years. His hands were like the roots of the bamboo shoots pulled out of the soil. He held the handle firmly and trembled from time to time.