“I think you have a cricket in your basement,” my sister said after spending the night in “the guest room,” a queen bed in the, thankfully dry, basement.
I investigated, and sure enough, the cricked was chirping loudly and stopped abruptly for a few moments when I turned on the lights. Her hiatus was brief, and then her song bounced off the cement block walls once again.
Today, I found her, clinging to the side of an old brick next to the wall behind the dryer. I moved the dryer and she stopped her fiddling. We looked at each other. Well, I imagined she looked at me. I know she knew I was there.
“Thank you for your song,” I said, “but you can’t keep playing in here.”
I walked upstairs and returned with a plastic container that had held treasures from my trip to the Northwest. I gave a slight bow to my guest, managed to guide her into the container without damaging her delicate instruments, and carried her upstairs and out the side door
“There,” I said, “play your music here.”
She disappeared into the grass and I assume found a place suitable for her song. I imagine her playing as I drove off, a few minutes late, to meet a friend for lunch. On my way I had begun to compose a haiku for the cricket. It is in progress. I will put down my first thoughts here and will continue to add until I am comfortable with the result.
First, I must say that as I reflect on the cricket in the basement, I consider that she played her song wherever she was. Probably surprised and possibly dismayed to have been relegated to an old brick behind my dryer, she played anyway. I should be so faithful.
Haiku in process:
Basement Cricket, found
Filling house with cricket song.
She now plays outside.
Basement Cricket, found.
We pause and regard one another
honoring the song.
MORETO COME…CHECK BACK
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