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