Crickets

A whole summer is nearly over and I haven't written once! I'm inspired to, now, because I'm home, working on thesis stuff and there's a cricket outside my living room window chirping proudly. Why is it that these classically summer sounds don't come out until the end? Do they need two months of warmth before they emerge ready to make the sound that makes me feel like it's hotter than it really is?

If I close my eyes I picture dusk. I'm sitting in tall yellow and green grasses. There are fireflies floating and the black silhouette of trees distant - the sun having just set behind them. The sky is red-orange and violet on the east, and stars are winking behind and between yellow clouds. It smells humid and green and if I lay in the grasses for long a dew will settle on my dress. I pass my hand over these grasses and pull a piece to put in my mouth and chew on the end. The ripped stalk pokes at my tongue and I play with the long end, bouncing out from the corner of my mouth. When I walk, the sounds of dry and bending stalks crunch and muffle my steps. They brush past my legs and tickle my ankles as I move in the direction of nowhere. I am alone and complete and watch the fingers of light gently pull the dark star canvas over my head. Occasional, silent clouds cover large portions of stars I know are there. The trees on the horizon do the same. The crickets keep calling and a pair of mice rustle through the stalks nearby as I stand still in the middle of the sky.