The cricket’s hum meanders,
omnipresent in the dimness of night,
a chorus birthed from roughness
and a guild of things without vertebrae
a sound that dances, constant,
wavering only under morning sun
~
Coiled up in a black stew,
the insect churning stands amid a mute
concoction of the kind of
muddyness that emerges after dusk,
hovering over cities
and brushing past streets until its repose