麦子黄了,一望无垠的麦田如泼洒的绸缎,翻滚着金色的浪潮。爷爷背着手,信步走在田埂上,慈祥的目光在麦浪里浮沉。暖暖阳光穿过弯弯的麦秸,腾起土地里的芬芳,浸润了麦穗的香甜和爷爷汗水的醇厚。小时候牵着爷爷温暖的手,看爬树的蜗牛在深棕的树干上留下晶莹的痕迹。爷爷说:“那是蜗牛回家的路。”“可蜗牛的家不是在它背上吗?”我反问。爷爷笑而不语,凝望着远处的麦田,目光深邃得有了历史感。我不懂,爷爷的眼 Yellow wheat, an endless wheat fields such as sprinkle of silk, tumbling golden tide. Grandpa carrying his hand, walking in the fields on the ridge, the kind of eyes floating in the waves. Warm sunlight through the curved wheat straw, soaring soil fragrance, infaturated wheat ears of sweet and grandfather sweat mellow. As a child, holding grandpa’s warm hands, watching the snail climbing the tree left crystal traces on the dark brown trunk. Grandpa said: “That’s the way for the snail to go home.” “Is the snail’s home not on its back?” I asked. Grandpa laughed without words, staring at the wheat fields in the distance, with a deep sense of history has a sense of history. I do not understand, my grandfather’s eyes