An aging bulb flickers, then lights,
As it does on many summer nights,
Several moths come in to sight,
Attracted to the weak porch light.
The rhythm of a metallic creak,
Accompanied by occasional squeak,
Provided by the porch swing chain,
As it swings with nary a strain.
Forward, back, and forward again,
The swing returns to where it has been,
As cicadas buzz, and bull frogs croak,
A breeze rustles branches of a nearby oak.
Evening cool gentles the scene,
Darkness falls upon the green,
The porch is now the perfect nook,
Time again to crack open the book.
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