一行路人经过下梨儿巷时,西北风从裸露枯黄庄稼茬子的原野上奔来,越过被夕阳烧红的浑厚大河,在城市上空呜咽。农历新年马上要跨入门槛,却变了天。冬天僵白的手,猛烈拍打青砖院墙,仿佛要攥住一整条巷子,抛麻雀一样,一把抛向城东木桶山,这座巍峨的青石大山更远的地方。行路人缩身袖手,冻得嘴唇发青,一眼瞥见巷子尾的小卖部,大步流星凑上去,买点白酒暖肠胃。“瞧这风,吼吼的!”掌柜把本就狭小的玻璃窗,打开一条窄缝,扭头从铁皮柜里取出一瓶酒。“开一下!”“老哥,要不要烫一下?”掌柜慢悠悠地说,“里边就是家,一拐手儿厨房。” When pedestrians pass under Pear Lane, the northwest wind runs from the uncultivated yellow crop stubble field across the vigorous river blackened by the sunset, sobbing over the city. The Chinese New Year is about to cross the threshold, but it has changed. Winter stiff white hand, violently slapped the walls of green brick, as if to hold an entire alley, like a sparrow, throwing a barrel east of the city, this towering bluestone mountains farther. Row of people shrinking sleeves, frozen lips green, a glimpse of alley tail of the canteen, strode memoir up to buy some warm white stomach. “Look at the wind, howl!” The shopkeeper put the narrow glass window, opened a narrow slit, turned and took a bottle of wine from the metal cabinet. “Open! ” “Brother, do you want to hot?” “Shopkeeper said slowly, ” Inside is the home, a crutch kitchen. "