Smoke risingInto the dark skyCrickets chirpAnd a twig snapsWarm air presses against meAnd a cold windBlows behind my backThe fire cracklesAnd Mother laughsAs my marshmallowBlows up in flamesThen it is bedtimeCrawl into the tentThe air is coldBut inside the sleeping bagIt is warmThe glow of the fireShines through the tentAs a stick cracksAnd I drift asleep