The Song. {poetry}

The Song.

Crickets sing-song
like a heartbeat
pulsing
rapidly
as if you heard
the first crack of thunder,

saw the zig-zag of lightning,
bursting,
illuminating an oak
on a hill
as the first rain drops
fall heavy,
and suddenly,

as if someone
dumped a bucket of water
over your head,

but they didn’t,
and it’s dry, here,
where there hasn’t been rain
since June, maybe July,

here where the golden grasses
of California
smell like
a scent that can never be bottled

because

the only way
to breathe in this perfume
is
to be here
just after sunset
when purples and blues fade into black
and the first cooling breeze
rolls over
the golden hills,

calling

the song
out of the crickets.

Copyright 2016 © Jessie Zanita Wright

Painting by Jessie Zanita Wright {reuse only with my permission, please.}

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