I heard a cricket outside in the yard tonight
and its chirp was slow, fading, spent.
There were no others.
Wasn’t it just a few nights ago
that the darkness was filled with sound?
Now autumn comes and they are all gone
except this one.

Does he have the capacity to wonder
where all the other answering voices have gone?
Does he lament for a lost golden age
that was merely a few summer nights to me?

He was the last, solitary
and his song sounded heroic to me
even as it slowed to its final inevitable ceasing.
His creaking chirp, a tired rubbing of wearied wings,
was the song of all things
as they cried out one more time that they were here.

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