Crickets' Aria

Pleasant breezes carry a song of gnats,

whose intrusion upon your ears are violently terminated

by the swat of a little, calloused hand that grips its bike handle again.

The sun’s last harmonic goodbye is translated

by the generous oaks you pass, who idle

in solemn silence out of respect for the night.

Though the earth’s intonations are so present,

your mother’s harsh cautions slap the anvil in your temple,

not unlike the skin against skin when you’ve arrived home too late.

I told you to never be out alone after dark,

the world is full of wolves and rapists

and they all wait for young girls like you.

These unfortunately passionate warnings

do not silence the crunching of gravel beneath your tires,

for you are draped in the protection of the crickets’ aria.

Their operatic articulation wards off strangers

who wish to slash the tires and throats of young girls,

like you, so brave and full of anthem.

Nobody shields you the way the crickets do,

the redundant owl and ever-silent hare

are fast asleep, distracted by thought and instinct.

You whizz by innocent bushes and trees,

confident in your simple security,

oblivious to how the chirping has stopped.