I felt the lurch and halt of his song, end of summer. He was beautiful like the crack in a window, but unseen. I think he was in my basement. Imagining his mood is a human attribute–the cricket is sad or lonely, understands dying, or, joyously goes about his business. He is my cricket with his loose abandonment. He is persistence.
He knows something about the shadows of forests immeasurably older than human beings. In every century he has been broken. Listen to his legs, like the seething sound in a shell.