每次看到父辈们神色凝重地蹲在地头,手里的烟锅明明灭灭,那一朵朵飘向天空的烟圈,到底是些什么心思呢?得到的回答往往是更长久的沉默。我们没有父辈们的经历,猜不出那一朵朵沉闷的心思。父辈们,祖辈们,黄土地上的祖祖辈辈们,都是在那份沉闷中,一辈辈生存过来的。他们的心思能跨出那片黄土地吗?不能!也不可能。庄稼茂盛了,他们在沉闷中期待;土地遭灾 Every time I see the fathers look solemnly squatting to the ground, the hands of the smoke out of the pot, that blossoming into the sky smoke ring, in the end what is the mind? The answer is often longer silence. We do not have the experience of our fathers and we can not guess the blossoming thoughts. Parents, ancestors, the ancestors of the Yellow Earth for generations, are in that dull, generations survived. Can their thoughts span the loess land? No! No. The crops flourished and they were looking dull; the land was hit