Disability and the Winter Cricket



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. 




0 thoughts on “Disability and the Winter Cricket

  1. Hey, I just received an insect book as a gift within the past week. Beside the photo of the True Katydid is, “…by fall few males are still calling, and in the cold night air they call more slowly and, it almost seems, dejectedly. The ones still calling are those that have failed to find a mate.” Perhaps you could toss a few female crickets down the basement stairs?


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