Evening Song

Again, it is evening. Again, I sit writing. I wonder to myself as to why I write at night.

Is it because the night is quiet? All the house has gone to sleep?

Faintly in the distance, through my closed window, crickets sing. The fortitude of the crickets amazes me. Their tiny little selves make such a loud noise. They say only male crickets can sing. I wonder why. There was a little fellow in our hallway the other week, he was singing so loud, I could hardly think. It's nice to know that he was a fellow, it seems I am forever referring to something as a 'he' or 'she' and being completely mixed up.

Perhaps you are wondering, why the musings on crickets? I am not sure. Except, I have concluded that I love the sound of crickets. Or katydids, they sing too. It seems to me that Gene Stratton Porter mentions katydids more than crickets in her books. But katydids are green, crickets are black. The little fellow who came to visit was a cricket. There is something romantic about a cricket, in his little black suit tails.

Besides the crickets, there is not much to tell. So, I shall go to sleep listening to the lullabies of the crickets.