Evening Song

Cicadas vibrate what's left of Sunday— all this warm darkness, the pale glow of the western sky's fringe, and the ragged silhouettes of the pines. There are crickets, too, but their chirps are difficult to discern amid the cicadas' din. With luck, the crickets will outlast the cicadas, though.

Come November there might still be a few crickets ensconced in the warmest spots of yards, but the last cicadas will have become snacks for the feral cats. The chirps will be few and slow and will emphasize how the nights grow emptier as autumn consumes the remains of the year. The leaves will molder where they lie cloaking the ground under the shrubs, while others will skitter along the street where the chilly breezes sweep them.

Oh, I can hardly wait.


( Sunday Verse )