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