It’s June, and the rain-
freshened wood’s
feathered chorus is in
full and sunny swoon, not
singing so much as swinging to
each other’s
noisemaker tunes.
They share the squeaks
a boy of five squeezes
from his bath-side toys,
the towel-dried squeals and howls
he clambers with
up three creaky carpet-
covered steps,
and the penny-whistle-like
tinny tones he blows
with just his lips, to tell
the cricket he’s kept below
a not-quite air-tight lid,
it’s time for more
chirping.
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