October 2018
NOTE: Summer flew by this year, and just about all that’s left of it up here in Wisconsin is a skyscape lit up by brilliant leaves in the daytime— and at night, the crickets. They never fail to startle me, make me think they’re starting the concert early—but no. They have the timing of this thing down by heart.
Crickets: a Late Chorale
As if Boulez had raised his arms
and readied his baton,
the crickets poise themselves to play
their autumn song.
Soprano saxophones invade
the saturated air
with rounds of semi-quavers, shrill
against the ear.
Repetitive cacophony
becomes the leitmotif—
they know their time to reproduce
is growing brief.
And we who listen will do one
of several likely things:
deny the deviousness of time,
or fold our wings
or open them impulsively,
chirping with all our mights
for one more spell—or maybe two—
of red-hot nights.
© 2018 Marilyn L. Taylor
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