the last flock of pigeons have also gone out of sight after doing their final circling in the soft breeze, the sound of their whistles barely audible. they are hastening back to their warm wooden dovecote（鸽房） earlier than usual perhaps because they have mistaken the 1（阴冷的，荒凉的） leaden sky for nightfall or because of their 2（预感） of a storm.
the
3 4, daubed with a light green by several days of sunshine, are now covered all over with dust and look so sickly that they need to be washed. and the
5 soil and tree roots have likewise been dying for rainfall. yet the rain is reluctant to come down.
i can never forget the thunderstorm we often had in my hometown. over there, whenever the
6 of thunder
7 across the valley, the buds of spring would seem to
8（萌芽） freely after being disturbed and roused up from their
9 in the frozen soil. then tenderly stroked by the soft hands of fine rain, they would put
10 bright green leaves and pink flowers. it makes me nostalgic and
11 to think about old times and my mind is as
12 as the vast expanse of north china is thirsty. a tear stands in my dull eye and, like the rain lingering in the
13 sky, is slow to roll down.
white ducks have also become somewhat impatient. some are sending out irritated
14 from the
15 waters of an urban
16. some keep swimming
17 and tirelessly like a slow boat. some have their long necks submerged headfirst in the water while sticking up their orange webbed feet behind their tails and splashing them
18 so as to keep their balance. there is no knowing if they are searching for tiny bits of food from the bottom of the creek or just enjoying the chill of the deep water.
some of them stagger out of the water and, to relieve their
19, begin to saunter up and down with a gentleman-like swagger in the shade of the willow trees. then, they stand about to
20（打扮，用嘴整理） their white plumage carefully. occasionally they give themselves a sudden shake or flap their long wings to let off water drops from among their feathers. one of them, after
21 itself, turns round its neck to rest on the back, then buries its long red
22 under its wings and quietly closes its small black eyes tucked away among the white fine hair.
23 it is getting ready to sleep. poor little creature, is that the way you sleep?
the scene recalls to my mind the duckling raiser in my hometown. with a long bamboo pole in hand, he would look after a large flock of gosling-yellow ducklings moving about on the
24 water of a shallow
25 flanked on both sides by green grass. how the little creatures jig-jigged the bamboo pole to
26 over field after field, hillside after hillside! when night fell, the duckling raiser would make his home in a tent-like bamboo shed. oh, that is something of the distant past! now, in this dusty country of ours, what i
27 for is to hear the drip-drop of rain beating against leaves.
when i look up at a gray
28 29 of a low-hanging sky, some dust particles feel
30 on my face. a
31, seemingly irked by the gloomy sky,
32 down sideways out of nowhere, with wings wide-spread and immovable, until it almost hits the hillock on the other side of the brook. but it soared skywards again with a loud flap. i am amazed by the tremendous size of its wings. and i also catch sight of the grizzled feathers on its underside.
then i hear its loud cry - like a powerful voice from the bottom of its heart or a call in the dark for its comrades in arms.
but still no rain.
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