The stream is microwaved,
As if singing the symphony of spring,
The sound of rushing water is clear and pleasant,
The wind caressed all kinds of flowers and plants by the stream,
Watching the outside world carefully,
like a mirage,
The moon shadow casts infinite silver threads,
into the stream,
The long branches on the side of the bridge hang in a string,
As if the earth was breathing rhythmically,
Naughty blowing little bubbles,
Underwater small fish swaying gracefully,
attracted a dazzling group of butterflies,
danced lightly,
Solanum nigrum, Ryan followed Croton to get off,
crystal clear,
looming, smoky,
The grass that just sticks its head out,
The entrance of the saloon on the 1st floor.
The evening breeze mixed with the smell of hot soup,
Like patches of green misty ocean,
The houses in the distance are misty and smoky,
Pieces of green in different shades,
There is a small stream beside the lotus pond,
The flowers follow the breeze,
sometimes lift it up,
The flowers are fragrant, the petals are fluttering,
Standing in the left and right rows of realistic robots wearing maid costumes,
He bent slightly, and at the same time whispered: Welcome,
look around,
Bend it now and then,
There is a bridge over the creek,
like a paradise on earth,
Can' t tell which is a flower and which i
rter of an hour,
The mountains are rolling up and down,