It is winter, early morning in the little township, chilled and black frosted, the plants and bushes stiffly frozen, the football field icy, the trees carrying crystals of sharp ice up to the wet sodden air hugging mist.
It is summer, lazy afternoon in the over-heated melting house, stuffy and humid, the flowers and plants are shrunken and dried, the garden deadly frown, everything was covered by eye hurting bright light in a slow motion.
Listen. It is the morning quietly roving the main road, the moist melodic streaming mist rising over the garage and the schoolhouse. It is grass shivering on the hill. Sunrise, dawn, the chorus of birds in the pinetrees.
Listen. It is the afternoon directly burning down towards the concrete,
Dazzling第二段我真的想不出來 幫 幫我好嗎
- 2 decades agoFavorite Answer
It is summer, late afternoon in the metropolitan city, stuffy and humid, the flowers and plants drooping and wilting, the garden hot, the weeds growing in the green grass withering under the sun in a cloudless sky.
Look. It is the evening subtly stealing up the dirt path, the dark shadows lengthening alongside the pub and the country house. It is a lone bird flying to its nest. Sunset, dusk, the rustling of leaves in the wind.
- Anonymous2 decades ago
這是 creative writing