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铃一响，操场就醒了
铃响了，短短的，脆脆的，像一把银豆子撒上了屋顶。
课本合上嘴巴，铅笔躺进笔盒睡觉，黑板留在原地，朝我们挥手。
全班在门口排成一串，像一条等不及要拐弯的小溪。
下一层楼梯，再下一层楼梯，墙上的小影子比我们跑得还快。
操场醒了，揉揉眼睛，然后张开大大的手臂。
红色胶皮跑道吞下我们的脚步声，一步，一步，都是鼓点。
毽子飞起来，一顶小皇冠，给天空鞠个躬再落下来。
跳绳画着圈扫过去，把地上的影子都扫了起来。
皮筋花在两个小姑娘的脚间开高，一开，就开得比膝盖还高。
有人赛跑，有人捉迷藏，有人只是站在太阳底下咧嘴笑。
笑声像爆米花，噼里啪啦，炸满了整个操场。
笑声在跑道上打滚，在旗杆上弹跳，在大柳树的梢头越升越高。
我跳绳跳到额头出汗，好朋友替我数着，一个，两个，三个。
班长把领子理正装得很严肃，可是他的脚也在跳。
老师站在操场边上，眼睛弯弯的，比阳光还亮。
十分钟，短得像一条小鱼，滑溜溜的，抓不住。
十分钟，又长得像一个夏天，够我跳一百个绳。
铃又响了，轻轻的，像妈妈在傍晚喊孩子回家。
操场舍不得我们，我们每人带走一嘴的笑声。
上楼排好队，口袋里的笑声还在偷偷探头。
坐回座位，心还在跑道上，一蹦，一蹦。
课本重新翻开，字里都是太阳的味道。
我小声对同桌说：明天，明天，操场还等我们。
铃声是这场游戏的开头，铃声也是它的收尾。
操场记得每个人的脚步，笑声挂在大柳树上，没有谁拿走。
下一次铃响，操场会第一个醒来。
我们是操场的孩子，十分钟是我们最快活的一首歌。
铃一响，操场就醒了，我们像一群小鸟，飞进去。
When the Bell Rings the Playground Wakes Up
The bell rings, short and clear, like a handful of silver beans rolling onto the roof.
The textbooks close their mouths, the pencils fall asleep in the pencil cases, and the blackboard stays where it is, waving at us.
The whole class lines up at the door, like a little stream that cannot wait to turn a corner.
One flight down the stairs, two flights, the little shadows on the wall run faster than we do.
The playground wakes up, rubs its eyes, and opens its big arms wide.
The red rubber track swallows our footsteps, one step, one step, all drumbeats.
The shuttlecock flies up, a little crown, bowing to the sky before it falls.
The jump rope sweeps in circles, lifting the shadows off the ground.
The rubber-band flower blooms between the feet of two little girls, higher than their knees.
Someone runs a race, someone plays hide-and-seek, someone just stands in the sun and grins.
Laughter is like popcorn, cracking and popping, filling the whole playground.
Laughter rolls on the track, bounces on the flagpole, and rises higher in the big willow tree.
I jump rope until my forehead sweats, and my best friend counts for me, one, two, three.
The class monitor straightens his collar and pretends to be serious, but his feet are dancing too.
The teacher stands at the edge of the playground, eyes curved, brighter than the sun.
Ten minutes, short as a little fish, slippery, impossible to catch.
Ten minutes, long as a summer day, enough for a hundred jumps.
The bell rings again, soft, like a mother calling her child home at dusk.
The playground does not want to let us go, and we each carry away a mouthful of laughter.
We line up and go upstairs, and the laughter in our pockets keeps peeking out.
Back at our seats, our hearts are still on the track, bouncing, bouncing.
The books open again, and the words all smell like sunshine.
I whisper to my deskmate: tomorrow, tomorrow, the playground is waiting for us.
The bell was the beginning of this game, and the bell is its ending too.
The playground remembers every footstep, and the laughter hangs in the big willow tree, taken by no one.
Next time the bell rings, the playground will wake up first.
We are children of the playground, and ten minutes is our happiest song.
When the bell rings, the playground wakes up, and we fly in like a flock of little birds.
我的课间，跳房子
我兜里揣着一截粉笔，白色的，像一小截骨头。
铃一响，我就往操场跑，跑得书包一颠一颠。
我在老槐树底下画格子，一格，两格，画到十。
格子是十级小台阶，通往我想象中的云朵。
沙包扔出去，噗，落在第七格。
我单脚跳，一，二，三，四，五，六，七。
第八格不能停，第九格不能停，单脚的本领要忍住。
弯腰，捡起沙包，再单脚跳回来，风在我耳边鼓掌。
轮到我好朋友，她的辫子一甩一甩，像两条小鱼。
她踩到线了，我们笑，笑声落在格子的缝里。
围观的人越来越多，数数的声音比上课还齐。
操场在旁边看着我们，一声不吭，影子凉凉的。
太阳把我们的影子拉得好长，影子也在跳格子。
风把格子边上的灰吹跑，格子越跳越清楚。
旁边的小一年级蹲下来，照着我们的样子画自己的小格子。
我教她念数字，七，八，九，她的声音小小的，像含着一颗糖。
她的沙包扔歪了，落在格子外，我们不笑她，我们帮她捡。
她跳成了，我们给她鼓掌，掌声脆脆的，像踩碎了一小片秋天。
高年级的哥哥姐姐也来围观，他们的影子盖住我们的影子，像大树护小苗。
有人喊：快！快！铃要响了！
铃偏偏在这时候响，短短的，像咬了一口的饼干。
我们不服气，说再跳最后一格，就一格。
最后一格跳完，笑声还没跳完，先跑向教室。
上楼的时候，我数台阶，一，二，三，还在跳。
坐下了，膝盖痒痒的，还想跳。
粉笔留在槐树底下，替我看家。
格子不会跑，它站在操场边上等我。
我的课间很小，只有十分钟。
我的课间很大，够我跳进十层云。
铃声管开始，也管结束，笑声归我管。
明天铃一响，我还去老槐树底下。
格子还在，沙包还在，笑声还堆在缝里，一颗都没少。
My Break Time, Playing Hopscotch
I keep a stub of chalk in my pocket, white, like a little bone.
The moment the bell rings, I run to the playground, my schoolbag bouncing behind me.
I draw the squares under the old locust tree, one square, two squares, all the way to ten.
The squares are ten little steps leading up to the clouds I imagine.
I throw the beanbag, puff, it lands in the seventh square.
I hop on one foot, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
No stopping on eight, no stopping on nine, hopping on one foot takes patience.
Bend down, pick up the beanbag, hop back on one foot, the wind clapping beside my ears.
Now my best friend takes her turn, her braids flicking like two little fish.
She steps on the line, and we laugh, our laughter falling into the cracks between the squares.
More and more children gather around, counting louder and neater than in class.
The playground watches us quietly, its shade cool around us.
The sun stretches our shadows long, and the shadows are hopping too.
The wind blows the dust off the edges of the squares, and the squares grow clearer the more we hop.
A first grader squats beside us, drawing her own little squares the way we draw ours.
I teach her to count the numbers, seven, eight, nine, her voice small, like holding a candy in her mouth.
Her beanbag lands crooked, outside the squares; we do not laugh at her, we pick it up for her.
She makes it, and we clap for her, the clapping crisp, like stepping on a little piece of autumn.
Upper-grade boys and girls gather around too, their shadows covering ours, like big trees sheltering seedlings.
Someone shouts: quick, quick, the bell is about to ring!
The bell rings right then, short, like a biscuit with a bite taken out of it.
We protest, saying one last square, just one.
The last square is done, but the laughter is not, and we run toward the classroom.
On the stairs I count the steps, one, two, three, still hopping.
Sitting down, my knees itch, still wanting to hop.
The chalk stays under the locust tree, keeping our place.
The squares cannot run; they stand at the edge of the playground waiting for me.
My break time is small, only ten minutes.
My break time is big, big enough to hop through ten floors of clouds.
The bell takes care of the beginning and the end; the laughter is mine to keep.
Tomorrow when the bell rings, I will go back under the old locust tree.
The squares will still be there, the beanbag too, and the laughter piled in the cracks, not a single piece missing.
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