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