The Crickets

“The crickets sound like electricity,” she says.
Their drones amplified in the absence of the kite flyers,
Who usually bend their knees on these hills.

We think about climbing into the watercolour sky,
Running our fingers through the rice clouds and lying
Across the caramel streaks.

A huge head of stone, with the tourist information
Embossed in metal crowning his head, gazes with us.
He’s seen ten thousand sunsets. He doesn’t have much to say.

We’re anchored, rich in a cocktail of cooling charcoal,
The rising smell of barbecue ribs with the insects,
Who talk to each other in the dry grass as we sit in silence.

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