August

Late summer,
The cricket's high voltage hum
Grows louder.
A frantic sound that
Fills my head on toasted gold afternoons, while
The days hang deceptive, slow and languidly passing.

Perhaps they know of
The coming cold.
Desperate need to push out their song
Before folding wing and fading into the quiet,
The deathly stillness of the frozen woodpile.
The frost covered leaves.