My Human Disguise.
The crickets sing ceaselessly every night.
Are they warning off or chirping the dark?
They’ve a neutral effect, like a chalk mark
On an old slate blackboard, more gray than white.
I walk out into the back yard. Silence.
A crescent moon slides behind a thick cloud.
I shout “yes!” once and shatter night’s nonsense.
When I go in the crickets’ answer, both loud
And incessant, scolds me for my pretense.
I realize they are not scared, but proud.
In autumn, some crickets sound all day long,
As they regale the sun in regal state.
In moonlight, they whisper, winter can wait.
Soon the first frost will extinguish their song.
