【散文】我最喜欢的季节散文400字：夏天的傍晚

晚霞烧了半边天，然后轻轻熄灭

奶奶院子里的夏天傍晚，是一天里最凉快的几个钟头。太阳一偏西，奶奶就从午觉里醒过来，先往院子的土地上泼一盆水，水渗下去，腾起一股土腥气，她说这叫送热。然后她搬出竹席，铺在院子中间的空地上，席上垫一条薄被单，被单上躺着我。

晚霞是从院西头的屋脊上冒出来的。它先把屋顶上的云染成金色，再染成红色，然后有一道紫挤进去。霞光越铺越大，从一角铺到半边天，连檐口的瓦都照得发亮，丝瓜架上的丝瓜脸都红了。我躺在竹席上看霞变色，看到它变成粉灰色，以为完了，忽然又跳出来一道鲜红的。奶奶说，晚霞烧得好，明天是晴天。我不关心明天的天气，我只关心那道红的，它熄灭的时候我一动不动，还躺着，看天慢慢变蓝。

院边树上的蝉，黄昏时叫得最凶。白天的蝉叫得懒，一声一声散着；一到黄昏，它们像突然开了个会，叫声密密层层，一层压一层，蝉声越密，晚霞显得越静。吃过晚饭，蝉声开始松下来，还剩一两声拖着，叫几声停一下，像在试探夜到底来没来。奶奶摇着蒲扇讲旧事，蒲扇的小风混着蝉声，我听着听着睡着，醒来时故事停了，扇子还在动。

乘凉的人是四邻八舍。男人们搬着凳子到矮树下下棋，棋子被吃时没人吭声，棋输了倒一片人起哄。女人们凑在一起说话，说庄稼，说鸡蛋价钱，说谁家的孩子。孩子们在她们腿中间钻来钻去，有人喊，别跑，看撞了棋盘。夜风过来时，院边玉米叶子哗一下，有人抬头说，好天。

如今在城里，夏天傍晚过在空调里，晚霞只在两栋高楼缝里看一眼，蝉被空调外机的嗡嗡替掉了。可我每次看见楼上一道红霞，就想起那个院子：霞烧了半边天，轻轻熄灭，蝉声和乘凉的人声都还在，奶奶的扇子还在动。

The Sunset Glow Burned Half the Sky and Then Went Out

The summer evening in the yard of my grandmother, in the village where I grew up, was the coolest part of the whole day. Once the sun leaned west, my grandmother woke from her noon nap and threw a basin of water onto the packed earth of the yard. The water sank in and raised a smell of damp soil. She called this seeing off the heat. Then she carried out the bamboo mat and spread it in the open middle of the yard, covered it with a thin sheet, and on the sheet lay me.

The sunset glow rose above the roof ridge at the west end of the yard. It first dyed the clouds over the roof gold, then red, and then a streak of purple pushed in among them. The glow spread wider and wider, from one corner to half the sky, until even the tiles of the eaves shone and the faces of the luffa gourds on the trellis turned red. I lay on the bamboo mat watching the glow change color, and when it faded to a pinkish gray I thought it was over, when suddenly a fresh streak of vivid red jumped out again. My grandmother said a well-burned glow means tomorrow will be clear. I did not care about the weather of tomorrow. I cared only about that red streak. When it went out I lay still, watching the sky slowly turn blue.

The cicadas in the trees by the yard sang fiercest at dusk. By day the cicadas sang lazily, note after scattered note; at dusk they seemed to open a meeting all at once, their sound layer upon layer, one layer pressing the next, and the denser the cicada song, the quieter the sunset glow looked. After supper the song began to loosen, with one or two notes left dragging, a few sounds then a pause, as if testing whether night had truly come. My grandmother waved the palm-leaf fan and told old stories. The small wind of the fan mixed with the cicada song, and I fell asleep listening. When I woke, the story had stopped, but the fan was still moving.

The people cooling off in the evening were the neighbors near and far. The men carried stools under the low trees to play chess. No one spoke when a piece was captured, but when a game was lost a whole crowd jeered. The women gathered in clusters talking about crops, about the price of eggs, about the child of somebody. The children darted between their legs, and someone called out, do not run, you will knock the chess board over. When the night wind came, the corn leaves by the yard rustled all at once, and someone looked up and said, fine weather.

Now in the city, the summer evening passes inside the air conditioner. The sunset glow is only glimpsed through the gap between two tall towers, and the cicadas have been replaced by the humming of outdoor compressor units. But every time I see a streak of red glow above the buildings, I remember that yard: the glow burned half the sky and went out gently, and the cicada song and the voices of people cooling off were still there, and the fan of my grandmother was still moving.

蝉接过了白天，晚霞把它交出去

老陈看这座公园六年了，他比草坪上那座钟更懂夏天白天交班的时间。七点整，白天的热退场，石凳不再烫人，公园开始属于另一批人。

他看见晚霞，第一眼不在天上，在街对面写字楼的玻璃幕墙上。霞被幕墙接住，一格一格亮起来，橘色、玫瑰红、紫，过马路的人仰起脸，有人举着手机。天上的霞还在楼背后，城里的人先在玻璃上看见霞。老陈站在东门，霞光从他制服上过了一遍，他眯眼看了两回。他跟园丁说，今天霞大。园丁说，明天晴。

灌木里的蝉最先向他报告。白天蝉叫得乱，被马路上的声音压着；一到黄昏，马路的声音沉下去，蝉声一层一层浮上来，挂在槐树枝上，像一场要下不下的雨。他伸手拍了拍树干，说，叫吧，夜里凉快。没人知道他跟蝉说话。

乘凉的人一批一批出来。湖边的老头们卷着衬衫摆开棋盘，棋子落下去，围观的人吵起来，吵的声音比蝉还大。推婴儿车的妈妈绕着湖走，车里的孩子睡着了，妈妈自己边走边打盹。有人把竹席直接铺在草坪上，人躺下，帽子扣在脸上。老陈巡逻走得比平时慢，从竹席旁边绕过去，路过棋盘时站两秒看一眼。他从不说话，嘴角有一点笑。有一回一个飞盘落进灌木，小女孩跑过来，老陈弯腰从枝子里捡出来递给她，女孩说了声谢谢，他点了下头。后来他路过那片飞盘场地，特意绕着灌木走远一点，怕飞盘再落进去。园丁说他心太软，他说，这个点是人心最松的时候，谁也别添堵。

九点以后，幕墙上的霞熄了，蝉接管了整个夜。乘凉的人一个一个散去，棋盘收走，草坪还给草坪。老陈走完最后一圈，路过槐树仰头听了一会儿。蝉声很密，公园很静。他说，这个点，最像人间。

The Cicadas Took Over the Day and the Glow Handed It Back

Old Chen had watched this park for six years, and he understood the changing of the guard on a summer day better than the clock on the lawn. At seven sharp the heat of daytime withdrew, the stone benches stopped burning people, and the park began to belong to another crowd of people.

He saw the sunset glow first not in the sky but on the glass curtain wall of the office tower across the street. The glow was caught by the curtain wall and lit up panel by panel, orange, rose red, purple. People crossing the road tilted up their faces, and some held up their phones. The glow in the sky was still behind the tower; in the city, people saw the glow first on glass. Old Chen stood at the east gate, and the light of the glow passed once over his uniform. He squinted and looked twice. He told the gardener, the glow is big today. The gardener said, tomorrow will be clear.

The cicadas in the shrubs reported to him first. By day the cicadas sang in confusion, pressed down by the noise of the road; at dusk, as the noise of the road sank, their song floated up layer by layer, hanging in the locust branches like a rain that wanted to fall but would not. He reached out and patted the trunk, saying, sing on, the night is cool. No one knew that he talked to cicadas.

The people cooling off came out batch after batch. The old men by the lake rolled up their shirts and laid out a chess board; when a piece was dropped, the onlookers quarreled, and the quarrel was louder than the cicadas. A mother pushed a stroller around the lake; the child inside was asleep, and the mother herself dozed as she walked. Someone spread a bamboo mat directly on the lawn; the man lay down with his hat over his face. Old Chen walked his patrol slower than usual, detouring past the bamboo mats, and when he passed the chess board he stood two seconds to look. He never spoke, and there was a small smile at the corner of his mouth. Once a flying disc landed in the shrubs, and a little girl ran over; Old Chen bent down, fished it out of the branches, and handed it to her. The girl said thank you, and he nodded. After that, whenever he passed the disc field he deliberately walked wider around the shrubs, afraid another disc would fall in. The gardener called him soft-hearted. He said, at this hour the hearts of people are at their loosest; let no one add a weight to them.

After nine the glow on the curtain wall went out, and the cicadas took over the whole night. The people cooling off left one by one, the chess board was carried away, and the lawn was returned to the lawn. Old Chen finished his last round, passed the locust tree, tilted his head up, and listened for a while. The cicada song was dense, and the park was very quiet. He said, at this hour, things are most like the human world.