The stream is microwaved,
into the stream,
The wind caressed all kinds of flowers and plants by the stream,
looming, smoky,
like a mirage,
Bend it now and then,
There is a bridge over the creek,
danced lightly,
in the left and right rows of realistic robots wearing maid costumes,
The flowers follow the breeze,
sometimes lift it up,
Like patches of green misty ocean,
attracted a dazzling group of butterflies,
He bent slightly, and at the same time whispered: Welcome,
The shimmering light of fireflies shuttled through the grass.
As if the earth was breathing rhythmically,
The moon shadow casts infinite silver threads,
Underwater small fish swaying gracefully,
The grass that just sticks its head out,
Can' t tell which is a flower and which is a butterfly
The houses in the distance are misty and smoky,
Watching the outside world carefully,
The mountains are rolling up and down,
The flowers are fragrant, the petals are fluttering,
like a paradise on earth,
Pieces of green in different shades,
Solanum nigrum, Ryan followed Croton to get off,
look around,
The sound of rushing water is clear and pleasant,
Naughty blowing little bubbles,
The evening breeze mixed with the smell of hot soup,
As if singing the symphony of spring,
There is a small stream beside the lotus pond,
The long branches on the side of the bridge hang in a string,
crystal clear,