The crickets pretend to be one massive cricket. The size of the night. No night has ever had a size. It’s all in your head, something says. September. You’re not old. You’re their age. A matter of months or billions of years, finding a balance. Somehow the same. We’re all slowing down together. We touch in a space where semantic air meets the ear’s inner membrane. The weird sounds of a day twisting into a sort of DNA. And your mind splicing, recombining, while you sleep. The child in a dream wanders the field of wildflowers, lovely mutations. Go back further. Go back to your mother’s voice. It’s near the edge of the golden field. No words live here.