Taking out the garbage I pause
to listen to some late crickets,
two in particular, one fast and loud,
the other soft and contemplative,
both keeping time with their different selves.
The night air is cool. A car rushes
down the road, hitting the manhole
with the usual crump.
Neighbors are conversing across the way,
murmuring and laughing.
The moon is swelling toward full.
A distant plane flies in front of it,
its lights winking, as though aware
of some cosmic delight in all
that is going on.