I've thought about it, this insistent body of sound, so sharp the way its light enters the cement of the night like a nail, Here I am in a field of them. Each one of them rubs their little legs together and presses their knees against the grass, Soon, they'll string their thin ribs into a violin, gulp in the water of the moist air and open their mouths wide. There is no memory of loneliness in their songs, only the promise of summer and wild wind. God, when I grow up, I want to be a cricket song.