Campfire Sonnet

A crackle-pop goes up into the night, the embers shift amidst the orange blaze, circling moths then back away in fright, this bizarre sun no longer lights their way. In lawn chairs we all circle leaping flames, apple pie moonshine is going around, Bob made the stuff, no two batches the same, but still tastes warm as it burns its way down. My wife sits on my lap with content grin, the heat puts frisky thoughts into her mind, want to see firelight on naked skin, but folks are here, so I guess not this time. More sparks crack up, amidst the stars they dance, all thoughts trail off in the fire’s warm trance...