My Human Disguise.
When we were kids we used to smear fireflies
With old badminton or tennis rackets,
Unconscious that something more than light dies
Each time. Tonight they seem like opened eyes.
It’s August — there are three sounds from crickets
In my grasses, bushes, oaks, and thickets.
The tree cricket is loudest and solo,
His scraping hesitant and slow and low.
An upper range of choristers sing
With uninterrupted rising ringing.
In the grass, dozens, like an Indian drone,
Emit a mid-pitched and unvarying tone.
In other towns I’ve heard the same tone poem
And thought, crickets are everywhere — their home.
