During these days
The dog days
Of humidity,
Of August,
Of Summer
I stand outside and hear the
Crickets.
Occasionally the cicadas still sing
But thick air
Suffocates
Everything but the
Crickets.
Summers close
Autumns wake
Leaves yellow and scorch
Under the heat of the summer sun.
It takes effort to breathe.
It is no wonder
The birds
the leave the singing
To the
Crickets.