有一天,孩子问我内蒙古有多少山,我们正乘坐一辆破旧的长途汽车从通火车的城市出来,吃力地翻上一座山。流浪汉背着渍满油光的布袋四处游荡,或者坐在街边晒太阳、吹小喇叭(当地人叫它毕什库尔)的那座城市,像小人书里撕下来的一张画,已经遗落在遥远的山谷里了,隐隐约约又从那里传出一两声干燥的火车笛鸣,酷似深秋向南飞逃的最后一只孤雁在呻吟。我说:“从这座山开始数,数到车停下不走,你来告诉我。”可是才看见四五群土黄色的羊,他惊喜一阵就倒在我怀里睡着了。土道上趴伏的一 One day my child asked me how many mountains there are in Inner Mongolia. We are taking a dilapidated long-distance bus to come out of the city through the train and struggling to turn a mountain. The wanderer is lurking in a glittering bag or the city sitting in a street-side sun and blowing a trumpet (the locals call it Beshkur), a picture torn from the book of villains, Has been left in the distant valley, vaguely there again heard a dry sound of the train whistle, resembles the last flight of a solitary geese moaning in the south. I said: “From the beginning of this mountain, the number of the car stopped or not, you tell me.” But only to see four or five groups of yellow sheep, he fell asleep in surprise while I fell asleep . One lying on the dirt road