脱谷天色阴沉欲雨。在供奉着先祖牌位的堂屋里,摊开着一镰一镰,从七分田亩里辛勤收割来的那几担金黄。一位素衣素裤、留守空巢的农妇,扬起了手中竹制的耧粑,一下又一下,吃力地拍打着。全部稻穗,都是她一挑一挑,踏矮了几寸田埂,颤颤巍巍担回来的。无人帮衬,又怕雨,只有在堂屋里脱谷 Thunderstorm cloudy gloomy rain. In the hall dedicated to the patriarchs, a sickle and sickle were scattered apart from the golden harvesters that were harvested from the fields of seven fields. A plain shirt, left empty nest of peasant women, raised the hands of the bamboo shackles, look and again, slapped hard. All the ears of rice are all picked up by her, short of a few inches, and trembling. No one to help lining, afraid of the rain, only in the hall threshing