Cricket

For two nights,
the cricket,
under my window.
rubs his wings together.

When I focus on
"the noise,"
it bleeds
and the line between
nature and machine
blurs.

There is a digital ghost
in the sound.
When I feel frustration,
I hear a car alarm.

When I soften,
and spread my attention
like a liquid butter
over that which entices sleep...

I fall asleep.

© 2026 Blythe Dolores Utz