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