A Voice Where None Exists

In Spring’s loud commotion,
underfoot, nymphal crickets know better than
to compete to be heard.
Apprenticed, they await the grace of wings.
Silent diners, contentedly
they leave complex harmonies to the others
as they grow and molt.
But come the first humid nights July brings,
a voiceless miracle occurs;
added into the mash-up of Summer’s chorus
there is the scrape of a chirp.
Apprenticed no longer, they soar into song.
As the rest of the orchestra
falls silent in August, the crickets’ serenade
fades from consciousness,
but not from dreams with September’s arrival.
After Summer’s choir has
been stilled by the chill, their sound persists:
A voice where none exists.

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