九月微凉,黄昏的小路上,铺满了细碎的残阳。归家的牛羊,沐浴在霞光之中,叫唤悠长。路旁堆放的稻草垛,披着柔软而金黄的衣裳静默着,听蛙儿鸣、虫儿唱。田间,跳动着几个拾稻穗的孩童。他们拾起一根根稻穗,就如同拾起一串串心愿,欢呼雀跃,笑声连连。曾几何时,那其中有一个就是我。淡蓝色的炊烟袅袅升起,菜肴的香味从厨房飘出,随着微风弥散开来,成了一串呼唤人们回家的信号。大人们收拾好东西,相互呼唤着收工了;孩子们跳上田埂, September cool, twilight on the road, covered with broken residual sun. Going home cattle and sheep, bathed in the glow, called long. Stacked by the roadside stack of straw, dressed in soft, golden clothes and silent, listening frog children, insects sing. Field, beating a few picked up the ears of children. They pick up a root of rice, like picking up a string of wishes, cheer, laughter again and again. Once upon a time, one of them is me. Light blue smoke curl up, the smell of dishes floated from the kitchen, with the breeze dispersed, became a signal to call for people to go home. Adults to pack up good things, call each other to get off work; children jumped on the ridge,