Little cricket, my taledu,
you rise and rub your legs together at dawn
just beneath the November clouds.
Perhaps you’re signaling rain
from inside your post of lanugo and hiccups
from the safety of your lily pad.
Unseasonably warm for Thanksgiving,
I read your movements as omens
toward appropriate weather
and a quickly nearing winter
where you’ll finally make your appearance
as the shoots mumble beneath the dirt.
Little cricket, your delicate Debussy tinklings,
your percussive codas awakening with the morning,
give me reason to rise and salute
the last few months of your amniotic capture
and imagine the day of freedom
when you will sing your aubade aloud
for all creatures to hear.