I don't know why the crickets feel the need to bitch
the moment the sun trades places with the moon,
it's as if someone pitched an out of key insect symphony into the yard.

I know how they groan, how they moan scissor clipped songs that lick the crisp evening,
but I haven't the faintest idea how their neuro-systems function.

Perhaps if I had a steady hand
that could master a scalpel
or a pliant mind
that could understand dead Latin jargon.

But I know none of that, nor have any patience
they squish,
but I can never get them all.

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