“It is in the wild in the seventh month,
Under the eaves in the eighth month,
In the house in the ninth month,
and under my bed in the tenth month.” * ^
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Some anonymous soul composed this verse over 2500 years ago in China.
Today one might witness a similar pattern repeating itself here on Little Crum Creek.
Summer’s chirping symphonies of the grass have gradually dwindled to autumn’s solitary calls.
And a field cricket suddenly sounds from a darkened corner of the house.
Only a male field cricket chirps, rubbing his wings to attract a mate.
The female is distinguished by a long, menacing-looking appendage jutting from her back end.
Actually harmless, this ovipositor inserts fertilized eggs in the soil after a successful coupling.
Those eggs overwinter, hatching a new generation of field crickets in the spring.
But the parents won’t survive to see them.
So why begrudge a male’s last call in the house or, seen from the corner of my eye somewhere down on the floor, a mother’s final crawl?
The silence and stillness of winter comes soon enough.
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