恍惚里,有一队骡子披着霞光从西天里飘过来了,蚰蜒般粗细,穿过窗棂,冉冉地融入了瓶子,后面紧随着把式、把式的女儿、铁匠、铁匠的儿子,以及叮当叮当的被山风送过来的凄清又无奈的记忆。“爸爸,骡子长什么样子?它是马吗?”儿子放学归来,进屋就问。突如其来的提问,使我一时间说不出话来。多少年没有见到骡子这牲灵了,多少年了,做梦似乎也不曾梦到过。它的影像几乎怏和驴、马重叠在一起了。 Trance, a team of mules drifting from the sky in the sky, winding, winding through the window, slowly into the bottle, followed by the type, the daughter of the type, blacksmith, blacksmith’s son, and jingle Jingle be sent by the mountain of desolate and helpless memory. “Dad, what does the mule look like? Is it a horse?” Sudden questions, so I can not speak for a time. How many years did not see the mule of this sacrificial soul, how many years, dream did not seem never dreamed. Its image almost 怏 and donkey, horse overlap together.