crickets

There is a rustle in the deadfall, there is motion riffling the leaves. The birds on high vie for the tender underbelly. The dogs down here dig up treasures by the trove. We make our marks, we check for signs. Foot prints on the middle path, commotion amid the stars. I take my share of ink and scarring. I shed my shell and make my claims. It is a wonder that anyone is watching. It is a miracle that anyone can see at all.

The work is always there, the vast collapse unfinished. The work is always there, if money is no object. The idea of reward, the scant fact of compensation, rattling the windows and banging on the door. Waiting for that lucky moment, thinking the timing must be just so. I collect ache and incomprehension. I only ever gather what I sow. Lost cities and storm warnings. The labor of recall footsteps upon the hot and shifting sands.

Time has its reasons, time has its say. The clock translates the message, the countdown bound to the writing on its face. The stage is set, the audience if it's out there always in the dark. I pace the boards, practice my craft. I spell it out in blunt letters and dull tricks. The world tumbles, the sky falls. The earth can not stop shaking. Messages come by the bottle, missives stitched onto the skin of the wind. The light burns low, the day runs down. I speak my peace in brittle little pieces. The curtain comes down, and the rest is crickets.