the first cricket’s made herself known.
Not seen,
just that razor-thin chirp,
slicing the hush
like she owns the dark.
For a second,
I reached for the spray—
the human solution.
But she sings anyway,
like a landlord
with no lease to show.
She wants to be here
as much as I do.
Maybe more.
Maybe she knows
this house was never really mine.
She chirps from the corner
like a priestess behind a veil,
offering nothing
but the reminder
that silence is a choice.
I remember the frog—
found him one dusk
soaking in the jacuzzi
like he owned the joint.
When I came back with the camera,
he was gone.
And I think—
as sharp as razor wire
her chirp might feel to me,
it must sound like heaven to frogs.
Not every song
is sung for us.
Not every beauty
waits for a lens.
