The crickets are loud at night
Do they protest the coming of the winter, their deaths, the end?
Do they celebrate the limpid blue skies, the crunchy grasses?
Of course not
I hate to close the windows and lose the shrill, happy music
But it’s chilly
Summer’s back is broken despite the odd hot evening
and sticky afternoon
School starts, the calendar fills, the apples are ripening
I saw pumpkins, already, orange on a granite bench