WEBVTT

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And then-- some wonderful
crickets in Tucson--

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a poem called The Black Jewel.

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In the dark, there is only
the sound of the cricket.

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South wind in the
leaves is the cricket.

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So is the surf on the shore and
the barking across the valley.

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The cricket never sleeps.

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The whole cricket is
the pupil of one eye.

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It can run, it can leap,
it can fly, in its back

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the moon crosses the night.

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There is only one
cricket when I listen.

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The cricket lives
in the unlit ground,

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in the roots out of the wind.

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It has only the one sound.

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Before I could talk, I heard
the cricket under the house,

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and I remembered summer.

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Mice too and the blind lightning
are born hearing the cricket.

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Dying, they hear it.

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Bodies of light turn,
listening to the cricket.

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The cricket is neither
alive nor dead.

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The death of the cricket
is still the cricket.

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In the bare room, the luck
of the cricket echoes.

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