The winter of wisconsin
Nothing. No tracks but my own are stitched into the dusting of fresh snow, white as birch bark, that fell during the night. No flittering shadows in the trees, not a sliver of bird song in the air.
天地一片空寂。昨夜剛剛飄落的一場(chǎng)大雪,像白樺樹(shù)皮那樣潔白,白雪皚皚的大地上只留下一行我自己的足跡,仿佛縫在白布上的一行細(xì)密針腳。樹(shù)上沒(méi)有飛鳥(niǎo)的影子掠過(guò),空中也沒(méi)有一絲鳥(niǎo)兒的歌聲。
What sun there is this time of year shines weakly, halfheartedly through the white gauze of clouds, offering not even the slightest pretense of warmth. For nearly a week temperatures around my Wisconsin cabin have not risen above zero. The mercury seems painted to the bottom of the thermometer.
一年中此時(shí)的太陽(yáng)發(fā)出微弱的光線(xiàn),懶洋洋地透過(guò)薄薄的云層,沒(méi)有一絲暖意。幾乎有一個(gè)星期了,我在威斯康星州的小屋里的氣溫還沒(méi)有到過(guò)零度以上。溫度計(jì)里的水銀柱降到了底端。
Excerpt:From A promise of spring.
By Jeff Rennicke