Crickets — A Poem

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.

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