I walk out my back door, carrying the scraps
To the cat who lives in our yard
I hear the train whistle in the distance
The neighbor’s dog barking at who-knows-what
And crickets
Lots and lots of crickets
The warm summer air embraces me, blanketing me
Against the stale, air-conditioned reality waiting inside
The moon in the southwest sky, now lower than the trees,
Fights through broken clouds to light the lawn, the garden, the corn
And crickets dutifully mark each degree with rubbing wings
Lots and lots of degrees
Lots and lots of crickets
I work hard — husband, father, minister, writer, friend
Others work harder — farmer, laborer, soldier, mother
But no one I know works harder
Than a cricket
On a warm summer night.