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