Member-only story
The Night Singer
A cricket escaped from the eggs into the tall grass. Small and dark, it was unaware that someday it would bring forth a symphony.
It learned to dodge birds and toads. Fallen seeds, bits of leaf, a dead fly-these made up its banquet. It hunted not but scavenged.
As it got bigger, it molted-enough of the old skin to give the impression of being ghosted. Coming into its own, it powered its wings and rubbed them. It was rough at first, then it got clearer. Why did it produce the sound? It didn’t know. It simply did.
It was a calling, a signaling. The others crickets responded. They found one another in the dark. There was mating, followed by the laying of eggs into the soil, and soon thereafter, the death of the female.
With the arrival of the first frost, the song of the cricket slowed down. His legs began to stiffen, and he went underground under a leaf, his music coming to rest.
In spring, the eggs hatched. New crickets had come up. They fed. Grew. Learned to sing.
On summer nights, the air was alive with chirp-the same rhythm, the same call. They did not know the singer who had sung of old. They simply knew they had to sing.
And then the cycle continued. Life. Song. Silence. Life again.
