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大巴山的冬天总是多雾,先是薄薄的几缕在河谷沟底辗转腾挪,在不经意间迅速弥漫开来,一眨眼,连绵的大山就成了一座座孤屿,在茫茫雾海里摇来荡去。五叔发丧的那个早晨,铺天盖地的浓雾一团一团地在鞍子坪上空翻卷,把引灵的火把舔得魂不守舍。悲怆的锣鼓、呜咽的唢呐,被裹挟着在山谷间左冲右突、断断续续。一村老少默默地撒着纸钱,簇拥着八个抬棺的精壮汉子一步一挪地走向五叔生前为自己选定的“老宅”——一块贫瘠的红石谷子地。
Daba Mountain in the winter is always foggy, first a few piles of thin valley in the valley ditch moved, inadvertently quickly filled with blink of an eye, the rolling hills became a Block Island, shaking in the vast sea of fog Go away. Uncle funeral that morning, overwhelming dense fog rolled up in the saddle Ping, the lure of the torch lure unscrupulous. Grieved percussion, sob suona, was trapped in the valley between left and right, sudden, intermittent. A village and young people silently sprinkled paper money, surrounded by eight sighs carrying coffin step by step moved to five Uncle selected for their own “old house” - a barren Redstone Millet.