乡村是如此独特。脚下的黄土,铺就真正的道路,柔软地承接着每一份重量。抬头而望,是轻鞭黄牛而下的人。走近了,几句乡音留下不尽韵味,回荡着热络。黄牛悠然地去啃路边的草,眼神却不经意问撞上了人:湿润而漆黑,如崖下的深渊。山间有路,屋旁有路,田边也有路,便是埂,是垄。它们穿插来去,编织着春日细弱的苗、本色的土,秋日滚金的麦浪,以及冬日浑然的初雪。对于梯田,边埂是险的,细而陡,走上去却并不怕。低头是埂边的花草,一簇簇繁多细碎。抬头是望不尽的远 The country is so unique. At the foot of the loess, shop on the real road, soft to undertake every weight. Looked up, is whipped cattle down people. Approached, leaving a few accent endless charm, echoed the heat. Cow leisurely eating grass on the roadside, but inadvertently asked to hit the people: moist and dark, such as the cliffs under the abyss. There are roads in the mountains, there is a road near the houses, there is a road in the fields, there is a ridge, a ridge. They interspersed, weaving the thin spring seedlings, native soil, autumn roll of wheat waves, and the winter of the first snow. For the terraces, the border is dangerous, thin and steep, go up but not afraid. Bow down is the edge of the flowers, a cluster of many broken. Looking up is endless