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Jan 22
At night I hear the crickets talking to me,
their black backs
slick and reflective
against the moon.
When the sun comes up,
I leave the doors ajar so
they come inside to hide
under the chests and in the corners of the room;
their Morse code of clicks and chirps
a metronome for my writing hand.
Written by
Alexis Elizabeth Lynch  31/F/Ohio
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