Crickets

Saturday in August there’s a high pitched wheek of crickets and the lawn is patched with brown and I have the feeling everyone’s at brunch. I could head out for a bloody mary myself, or phone a friend. Something, though, is trying to be known. Even though it all feels familiar like I already know how the sun will set, and I already know the way the crow calls. I already know this day so I’d like a new one, please.

Sometimes it’s like this. Days hiccup drunkenly, skipping back in time. This one I’ve seen before. It happens near the end of things, and before the next; and it could go either way. Barefooted and unfettered, or silent and unmoored – it’s unwritten, unscripted, undone, and unimaginable. And in that unimagined way, it returns to a state that’s known. And so, an August day comes back, used before it starts.

Is there any comfort in that? The way the day unfolds like it always has? And when I hear nothing new, is that really all there is to hear? Beneath, beside, behind this day, is there another waiting?

Maybe that’s why September comes. To surprise us in spite of our August-y ways. But right now, here on this previous Saturday, I’m trying to listen.

What’s repeated and repeated and repeated? Something is trying to be known, and before the moon startles you again, the crickets stay.