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