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The cricket
prose [ ]

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by [Mioriþa Alba ]

2009-06-03  |     | 

October evening. The door towards the court is opened. At once something jumps inside. A cricket entered the room. Surprised, I was looking for it, arrived in the room, he hides himself. All day long I was busy and forgot about it. But in the evening, just at eight o' clock he begins to sing:

from the door sash
cricket's song:
the new lodger

Next day he got out from his hiding place. Wishing to take him in a photo, the first frame was unclear. Finally, I catch him in a paper bag and put it in a shoes box. Next evening he didn't sing any more. I slink some leaves inside, to nourish him. Next morning there was no more but I found a leave from which a little parcel failed, his dinner.

He escaped, I thought, he didn't like to live in, and now he is free. Sorry for the photo.
In the evening, once again his song from the door sash and I enjoyed his concerto:

punctual soloist
the cricket's concerto
to eight o'clock

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