Dusk in Cricket Country

A vibrant sunset colors the sky:
Red, orange, pink, a hint of blue remains
The January air is as crisp as a September apple
In the half light, the faded echoes
Of voices calling out stories, send
Bugs marching off glossy pages into the air
A bossy ladybug, a tiny cat
A wise old cricket, a scared worm
An inchworm, a firefly, blinking away a signal
Twirling a dance
Spinning their way into the highest window of the house
Where a child dreams
Opening her eyes, she whispers four words.
Words, always the same, ever there, always true:
“I love you, tool”