The Crickets

This is a poem I wrote late one night, during late winter while homesick in Lincoln. My studio apartment featured a loud refrigerator, which reminded me of crickets and the sounds of home.


A landscape worth missing


The Crickets

Kylie Louise McCormick


The mechanical buzzing, humming, sprigging in my refrigerator fills my chilled apartment at night.

It reminds me of the chorus of crickets that lived under my bedroom window in Wyoming. Sleepless, I’d push back the pane of glass, letting that fresh summer night air fill my room.  Then I’d lie back in bed staring at the shadows cast by streetlights, listening to the minute midnight orchestra before finally drifting to sleep.

Grabbing a blanket, I took the opportunity to inspect the chirping I only heard while lying in the stillness of my bed. Walking through the faint glow of my kitchen appliances, I followed the symphony to its source, pausing once to look at my front door for just a moment, as if…

as if the crickets could play so loud,

as if the crickets could play through the cold,

as if the crickets could break down the door to bounce me back home.

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