There is no mate in front of the tall bamboo cage, and there is a weathercock in the chaotic flock of chickens.
When I lower my head, I am afraid that the red sand will fall, and when I sunbathe my wings, I often suspect that the white snow will disappear.
Suddenly, I felt the color of the cormorant's fur, and I felt sorry for the parrot's sweet voice.
What are you thinking about when you hear the wind? Looking sadly at the distant clouds and water in Qingtian.