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