The Last Cricket of Summer

Through my open window

I heard the last cricket of summer

pack it in at 5:27 a.m.

The rate of it chirps,

far and in-between,

its solo performance sad

as each chirp was long and slow.

The weather, mid-sixties now,

will take its toll on

this singular voice.

Hurrah, now a song from the

first bird of morning

floats through my screen,

as though assigned to carry on,

to carry the torch,

to bring a new voice

to the dark atmosphere.

The cricket wings will rub no more.

The Mourning Dove will take it from here.

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Mathew Paust, Sep 17, 2019

Lovely

Yes, lovely.

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