-This poem reflects on crickets after dark as the quiet music of a summer night, where sound gently takes the place of light.
When the last light leaves the fence,
and the yard grows deep with shade,
the crickets take the evening up,
in small bright measures of the dark.
Their song comes low from grass and root,
from under leaf and porch step wood,
a steady weaving through the night,
fine as thread and just as sure.
No single voice stands out alone,
yet all together fill the air,
until the silence is not gone,
but shaped by what the summer keeps.
So much of evening lives in this,
not only rest, but quiet sound,
the warm dark held by living things,
that sing when sight has given way.