It’s too early for crickets but
I seem to hear them everywhere outside
their singing reminds me of wet
fingers on wine glasses: a wavering
sighing, a rondo, indeed a chorus
but I want to know how they at times
seem to breathe all at once creating
a silence heavier than
the song keeping it tied here: to earth
the sometime home, the inescapable
at least for a cricket because they
are so small but you and I we know better
we can jump higher and longer and
never come down unless, until the final
breath, the last ring around, the finger
drying out to dip into the glass again