Stories as the smoke rises
And laughter lights the evening sky.
Coiled in a camping chair
Hands reaching out to draw
Every wave of heat.
Burnt-sugar-tipped sticks litter the ground,
Sign of the children finally asleep.
Sounds of singing carry over,
Friend of a friend on the mic, should we go?
Taking it in turns, one leaves
The other huddles closer to the fire,
Throwing on the sugar sticks that spit and crack.
The moon is high and full,
And in good company,
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