every time I go outside I hear the persistent song of the crickets

The crickets sang in the grasses. They sang the song of summer's ending, a sad, monotonous song. "Summer is over and gong," they sang, "Over and gone, over and gone. Summer is dying, dying.

The crickets felt it was their duty to warn everybody that summertime cannot last forever. Even on the most beautiful days in the whole year-the days when summer is changing into fall- the crickets spread the rumor of sadness and change. E.B. White Charlotte's Web

Gray hairs being plucked,
and from below my pillow
a cricket singing
Basho

Shadows

Shadows cast by the street light
under the stars,
the head is tilted back,
the long shadow of the legs
presumes a world taken for granted
on which the cricket trills

William Carlos Williams

Crickets and Gold

This is the season when we float
on rivers of mellow light
and the music around us
tastes of laziness.

We breathe the cinnamon
of dying leaves, burn our
retinas on the phoenix sun.

We clutch with hands
turned clammy
in the failing heat.

Soon the sky will freeze
and break the brittle blue
that traps us in this day.

Frosty nights will leave
the black shells of music
in the corners for us to sweep away
when we wake next spring.

Me