-This poem reflects on the final chorus of crickets before sunrise, marking the quiet handoff from night to morning in the gentle rhythm of late summer.
Long before the birds begin,
the crickets keep their patient hymn,
a quiet thread through cooling dark,
holding night a little longer.
The stars grow pale above the trees,
the east receives its first soft gray,
yet still the hidden chorus sings,
as if reluctant to depart.
No single voice can claim the hour,
it belongs to all the unseen,
to grass and hedge, to field and stone,
where summer keeps its oldest songs.
Then one by one the notes grow thin,
the robin finds the waking air,
and night folds gently into dawn,
without a word of farewell.