I can only assume the crickets
are talking about me

chirping vicious rumors
in their foreign vocabulary
which cuts through the descending summer night
like heat lightning.

I can only assume this because
why else, then,
would they suddenly
stop

as I walk by on this darkening June evening,
cease their lyrical chatter
as I pass the large bush
in which they hold their
private cricket council,

discussing most fervently each night
what I can only assume
are matters of grave societal importance:

the haughty summer breeze,
the arrogant, silent moon.