a sire
of Oliver
is spring
in Baganda
with carafe
here might
muse the
daughter in
craft and
slaughter now
leader for
features incumbent
in the
sprawl of
louche theatrics
to vanish
in mire

Closing eyes to remain alive
No breath remains intact
With open mind over Pacific ends
No Atlantic hope will last

The cricket was only doing what crickets do
Walking slowly up the walk looking for more crickets
Looking north and south, east and west
He or she appeared to alone
Where were more crickets
Where was the orchestra of fellow crickets
What happened

The wonderment stopped when this cricket let out “crick-it, crick-it”
The orchestra followed suit and sounded out in cricket harmony
Cricket harmony so welcomed by this once lonely cricket

Off it hopped to join in the symphonic noises created by the once hidden fellow crickets

Crick-it, Chirp, Crick-it, Chirp, Crick-it......

Brian Hill - 2019 # 239