秋蝉的嗓音,已从高八度降到低八度。而户外的风,却提高了嗓门,击打着漂泊的脚步。击打着脚手架上的牵挂和思念,把宋词的月光泼洒。仲秋,就是从这样的意境里走来了。父亲的烟草味、母亲的锅盖香,和妻子遮额搭棚向村外远眺的目光。逼仄了我的视野。我试图拽住皎洁的清辉,照亮回家的路,把蒙尘的翅膀擦洗。我试图背着月亮回家,煮沸生涩的情感,煮沸那些冰凉的雨水,不让潮湿的露水咸涩家门口那一双双守望的眼。 Autumn cicada voice, has dropped from high octave to low octave. The outdoor wind, but raised his voice, hitting the pace of drift. Hitting the scaffolding on the care and thoughts, the song of the moonlight sprinkle. Zhong Qiu, is coming from such a mood. Father’s tobacco flavor, mother’s pot incense, and his wife shelter scapego to the village overlooking the eyes. Cracked my horizons. I tried to grab the bright clearness, illuminate the way home, scrub the dusty wings. I tried to go home with the moon, boiled jerky emotions, boil those cold rain, do not let damp dew salty as the eyes of the double watch.