NightWings

You can't call the cops on the crickets.

How do they squeeze under my sunroom door? set up their garage band and then play with the raw energy of the Back Street Boys?

They have seniority over us. Their union started 300 million years ago, one of the earliest insects to produce sound. They do so by rubbing their forewings together in a process called stridulation, similar to a violin. Then, they amplify the sound through their bodies. Each cricket has a unique chirp, hoping to attract that special female.

According to legend, Buddy Holly's band was named the Crickets when a cricket got into the recording studio and its chirps found their way onto the record, I'm Going to Love You, Too. The real story is less romantic and was more for financial reasons.

Back to my garage band —

NightWings

They convene at dusk finding flower pots and cracks under my door.

The boys play their tune with wings like jagged bows.

She watches from a nearby fence, longing for the handsome lead with the syncopated song, and six gyrating legs.

The chorus rosins up; their instruments play hard from forest and grass — a flash mob.

The fireflies join in, adding strobe light to the mix.

Big Daddy Longlegs works security at the door.

The play past curfew, sound echoing through the indigo mist.

I toss and turn; my patience growing thin. I search the room; the music stops until I return to bed muttering threats with heavy metal against the chirping dead.

Dawn clears the venue, the amps turn off, the room empties; they tuck their bows and leave.

And I, the reluctant manager, sweep away the worn-out wings. The ones that didn't get the girl.

Author's Note: If you enjoyed this, please read:

Death Waits At My Mailbox in easy installments

The Road Forgets My path forward

Morning's Tongue on pursuit and flight

Peepers Chorus at the edge of night