Crickets are singing, trilling back and forth to each other, like a studio sound, stereo surround. I could dance across the thickest swath of the lawn and land like the pink ball from last week, or the blue ball from this week, and join them. Why it took what seemed forever for the wind or a child to claim them both I do not know. Have my feet lost their teenaged bravery?

This is a night like many others, and at this hour, the dampness has surely started to settle, the first shy kisses of dew slicking over each blade and each mound, the faintest breath, this hint of moisture doing nothing more than securing your grip. You begin to have a firm hold on this night. As it deepens you begin to slip, but just a little.

Crickets sing in the full sun, too, so why do we only hear them at night? If sitting across from you in the late afternoon I spoke quietly and lay my hand upon the table palm down, would you wonder what was hidden, would you imagine my quiet voice in the night?