乡村小路上的公园（春天、夏天）（秋天、冬天以后翻译）
罗伯特 · 麦卡弗里
春天，在乡村小路上的公园里，一个小男孩坐在绿油油、正在发芽有高大树荫的秋千上。
阳光明媚，空气中弥漫着孩子们玩耍的尖声笑语。男孩离开秋千在沙坑里的滑梯上看着他们玩，然后跑去坐在红蓝旋转木马上，旋转木马的镀铬把手在阳光下闪闪发光。
男孩又回到秋千上用力地摆动双脚，向外踢，同时逆着手中铁链的意志向后倾斜，他晃得就越高。在秋千上晃来荡去，沙子也不会进入鞋子。
在高高的树荫下秋千上，他在晃来荡去，远离阴暗，远离其他孩子。远离父母尖叫，他在成长而他们彼此之间的距离越来越远。
夏天，在乡村小路上公园里，一个年轻人在篮球场上和一群朋友在篮球场上尴尬地打球。
篮球场靠近栅栏，栅栏将公园与修剪整齐的草坪和邻近郊区房屋用树篱分隔开来，篮球场是平坦的灰色水泥地。
这个年轻人躲开对手，转身传球，然后闪回比赛前一小时用粉笔画的三分线上。他没有注意到额头和衬衫下的汗水，以及胸口沉重感觉！
自从父母离婚后，他就再也没打过篮球。这时一个又矮又瘦的少年，灵巧地躲过其他球员的防守，其敏捷让所有人感到惊讶。少年通往篮筐的路被挡住了，他把球不给其他的球员，而是给站在三分线上的这个年轻人，这个年轻人接球却没投中。
球场有人喊：“这节时间到了！”而另一支球队聚在一起祝贺他们胜利。这个年轻人的队友们面面相觑，急于挽回比赛，但这个年轻人已经离开了比赛。
他看到在秋千上一个孤独的身影。上面那棵高大的树荫为她遮挡了傍晚的阳光，让她躲在凉爽的阴影中。
当他走近她时，不好意思地笑了笑，从她微笑和顽皮的眨眼中得到了乐趣。“球打得好，特克斯！”她用一种南方口音热情地调侃道。
他坐在她旁边的秋千上。她接过他伸出的手，他们一起坐在宁静的黄昏里，摇摆着，看着太阳把天空变成一片火红色，在遥远的地平线下催眠。
The Park on Country LaneS. Robert McCaffrey
In the Spring at the little park on Country Lane, a small boy sits
on theswings underneath the green, budding branches of the tall shade tree. Thesun is shining and the high-pitched laughs and squeaks of children playing fill the air. The boy watches them over in the sandbox, on the slide, running to catch a seat on the red and blue merry-go-round whose chrome handlesglisten in the sun.The harder the boy swings his feet, kicking outward while leaning backagainst the will of the chains in his hands, the higher he climbs. On the swings,the chase isn’t important and the sand doesn’t get inside safe from the darkness,the other children, even the screams of his parents as their distance from eachother grows.
In the Summer, at the little park on Country lane, a young man strugglesawkwardly within a group of friends on the basketball court—flat, gray cement—near the fences which separate the park from the manicured lawns andsculpted hedges of neighboring suburban homes.The young man ducks, pivots, looks for the ball, and dodges back to thethree-point line drawn in chalk an hour before the game. He barely notices theunwelcome sweat on his brow and under his shirt, and the heavy feeling in hischest—he hasn’t played basketball since his parents’ divorce.A short, thin teenager, a natural, ducks gracefully under the outstretchedarms of the other players with an agility that continues to surprise everyone.His path to the basket blocked, he fires the ball with its tan and orange rubberover his shoulder—not to the players inside the key, but to the young man,quiet and patient, who stands on the three point line. Two points would tie thegame; three would win.The young man catches the ball, cradles ithands and frantic bodies. It circles the rim then drops off the side. Someonenear the court calls “Time!” and the other team huddles to congratulate themselves.His teammates look at each other, anxious to redeem their loss, but theyoung man has left the game already, his eyes concentrated on a lonely figureon the swings. The tall shade tree above has given her shelter from the glare ofthe late afternoon sun, leaving her concealed in cool shadows. He grins sheepishly as he approaches her, taking pleasure in her smile and the playful winkfrom her eye. “Nice shootin’, Tex,” she teases warmly in a false Southerndrawl.The young man sits down on the swing next to hers. She receives hisoutstretched hand with hers and together they sit in the peace of the advancingevening, swinging and watching the sun turn the sky to a fiery expanse ofcrimson and magenta as it hastens for slumber under the distant horizon.
