The Crickets

It’s early morning

Still dark and quiet 

And Baltimore is sleeping

Even the birds. 

 

But the song of the crickets

Amongst this silence

Is constant

And this is the music

Of early morning. 

 

A constant drip

Of water nearby

Punctuates

The only song you hear.

 

But not long after that

The sirens begin to hum

And this song will continue

Long after the song of the crickets

Is buried.  

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