A day of rain and mist. While working in the basement, I discovered a tiny, black cricket. Seeing or hearing these insects at the end of summer and throughout the fall, I often think of this small poem written by my neo-surrealist friend, Roger Parish:
DEAD CRICKET
You sprawl
like a crushed piano,
O obsidian archer!
For you,
the siege is over
and the song forgotten.
Never again
will your dark arrows
pierce my screens.
Cricket
found in basement
Northfield, Minnesota
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