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