Pages of Pint-Sized Poetry

The sun has now hidden behind the trees.
Leaves are whispering in the slight breeze.
Down by the river, I hear a frog croak,
As darkness enfolds the land in its cloak.

Engulfed in the halo cast by the fire,
Admiring the song of cricket’s night choir.
The flickering flames dance to their tones
While chasing the cold and damp from my bones.

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