In the foreground crickets lay down the treble treble tremolo. Two fields over a

gang of turkeys maraud around like they own the place and god the goldenrod 

in the ditches. Not enough to say goldenrod jewelweed milkweed stinkweed 

commonly found weeds in Vermont pastures something always has to be 

happening.

Car whine makes a line cut by slow hand lift. Sound wave. Dirt of the road so 

sweet I’ve a mind to lie down and roll in it like a dog. Dry heat and a still full of 

small bills. Flick of cows tail hum of farm machine maple leaf windblow drops 

unremarked rain that falls in the night something always has to be happening.

The people here my people they don’t hear crickets. To newly-old ears a 

monumental song. Uninterrupted interrupting. Ignoring the prearranged 

routines and hogging the limelight to the detriment of the ensemble. There 

must be a day in the spring when it starts I say. A day in the fall when it stops 

but nobody knows which days and who will listen? Who will hear those cricket 

days who will be here those days when I am not here which is most days.

(they stopped asking when are you coming home)

I got crossed off everybody’s list but we all come here to get lost: News from 

this state. Somewhere between here and Curtis Pond hornets in the backseat 

heavy at the wheel missed that turn at The Old West Church. Not enough to 

say Sodom Pond Bliss Pond Mud Pond Number 10 Pond next gas 23 miles 

something always has to be happening.

One dirt road in the woods looks like another. Signs are just names when you 

don’t have a signal. Make a tangle of dirt roads just to get lost in it. This is the 

most direct route between two points if you don’t know where you’re going. 

Don’t ask me for directions; I only know where I am. I’m standing here on 

Lightning Ridge at 8:36 a.m. writing this on my phone and I wish I had a tail to 

flick cause when the fly stops buzzing it’s biting you.