Cricket
A cricket has claimed its territory on our new backdoor. It may be a grasshopper, but I would like it better if it were a cricket. It is the sound of word: Cricket.
The cats have been less than thrilled with this. They have been stalking it all night. They have swiped and scratched at the glass. Their claws cannot go through glass. Jack has just tried to pounce on it. He just fully learned the concept of ‘glass’.
The darkness outside is tricky. A chorus fills the air. Night-bugs and the like make their music. The next townhouse is fifty feet away, maybe more, maybe less; I am not good with ‘size’. Outside, you would not know. I know because I’ve seen the land in the daylight, but there is no light. Not until morning.
There is a tightness in my jaw, on the left side. Stone-solid, yet moving, pulsing. Painful. Prospects of rest through sleep look empty, waiting for voiding. This is a reminder about something I have already forgotten.
Jack is sleeping, or what passes for cats as a face of sleeping, in front of the door, still. Again. Audra’s shoe is his pillow. When he got loose that one day, that day after Christmas, he faded into this nighttime because he is that near-forever color of nighttime.
