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,正一下又一下,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,只有在堂屋里脱谷了。挥动最原始的农具,来延长自己的手臂,伸展自古而然的坚忍。将所有的力量举到头上,嘭嘭嘭嘭叩响苍 Gloomy rain to 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 prime-color pants, peasant women stay empty nest, raising the hands of the bamboo shackles, is about again 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 foil, afraid of the rain, only in the hall threw away. Waving the most primitive farm tools, to extend their arms, stretch the stoic perseverance. Put all the power to the head, 叩 嘭 嘭 嘭 knock ring Cang