树上还挂着冰凌，口里呼出的都是白气，他们却穿着单薄破旧的衣服，脚上的也是几个冬天都不会变化的鞋。

Trees are covered with ice, white steam is breathed out, but they only wear stuffless and shabby clothes, the shoes they wear will not be changed in the winter.

常常觉得这十一月还是属于裤兜里塞了两捧炒栗子的少年，在渐渐抖瑟的风里面穿着单薄的衬衫，并且一鼓作气凶狠地走路。

I often feel that November belongs to a boy with his trouser pockets filled with roasted chestnuts, wearing a thin shirt in the chilly wind, and walking aggressively and bravely.