This is the season of crickets: early autumn and the nights turning cold. We think of them as musicians of small disasters even though this is patronizing and humanly imperial. But children know the truth. The crickets are singing in dark houses with the windows flung open to the night.
The thing about children and crickets is that their hearts have not been hijacked by esoterica. The Gods live inside a child and a cricket without fanfare or holy books. And just so: the gods, children, and crickets are not thinking about the pale ministers or the farmers.
They sing to the astronomy of bodily pain and the unredeemable knowledge of no body at all.
Was it a child or a cricket invented the shakahachi flute?