一这年冬天,孙志福时常望见一幅凄凉的晚景。一群乌鸦呱、呱地从他头顶上飞过去,飞到河滩远处去了。其中那只老鸦,扑闪着将要挣断的翅膀,变成一个黑点。这年割麦之后他病了一场,觉着身体至今未能恢复。他不可能忘掉那件事,但他不想回忆那一幕!太阳还是不知寒暑样,咝——咝——地拉响它的光芒。那麦田还是一块块铺开在他眼皮前了。麦穗头褐黄色,麦秆丛明黄色,是的,麦熟了就像人老了,将敛进棺木了!让他 One winter this year, Sun Zhifu often see a desolate evening scene. A group of crows quack, ghostly fly over his head, flew away to the river beach. One of the crows, fluttering wings will be broken off, into a black spot. He was ill after cutting wheat this year, feeling that his body has so far failed to recover. He could not forget that, but he did not want to recall that scene! The wheat fields still spread out in front of his eyelids. Wheat head brown yellow, straw yellow Cong Ming, yes, wheat cooked as old, will be in the coffin of the convergence! Let him