The chorus of crickets begins its song.
There are no words (that I know of)
but their song calls the birds–
the small grey ones with no tails.
They gather on the lawn looking for seeds
that will soon
be washed away
and knowing that later
the larger birds will come
looking for worms.
The cricket chorus suddenly becomes quiet.
The birds look around,
waiting for music to return.
In the uncomfortable silence
they take flight
and all is still.
In the distance
like the work of some huge photographer
who grumbles loudly after each shot.
The air feels charged.
My arm hairs try to stand.
The a bright bolt splits the horizon.
And an explosion like a salvo from a battleship
breaks the calm.
And the rain begins.
Several miles away
someone sits on his porch
to the chorus of crickets.