刚过去的2014年岁末,寒风料峭的兰州街头,一位黑脸膛、戴着近视眼镜的乡下人,提着一摞砖头一样厚重的书籍,从民主西路向着天水路十字匆匆走来,步履踉跄着登上了开往榆中的班车。他选择了靠近窗户的座位,在透过玻璃的冬阳里,迫不及待地打开一本崭新的书刊,那是刚出版的11月号的《飞天》。他的两眼忽闪着亮儿,那庄稼汉子黝黑的脸庞盛满了收获的喜悦,因为在那散发着油墨芳香的诗歌园地里,他又一次 Just past the end of 2014, cold Lanzhou streets, a black-faced, wearing myopia glasses countryman, carrying a stack of books as heavy books, from the Democratic Road toward the Tianshui Road cross hurriedly came, Imprisoned boarded the bus bound for Yuzhong. He chose the seat near the window and, in the winter sun through the glass, could not wait to open a new book, the just-published November issue of “Flying.” His eyes flashed brightly, and the dark face of the crop man was full of joy of harvest, for again in the poetic field that exuded the aroma of ink