Late summer morning,
I open the garden gate to frog sounds,
A light dew upon a pea vine hides friend frog,
Cricket behind me,
Wagging in a blure of velvet tail,
Seeking the fresh pea pod of morning.
Pods in a cup running over,
No tomatoes yet,
One for I and Cricket.
I look up and notice larva hanging by a thread,
Yellow and turning in the breeze,
The old oak offering a safe nitch.
Cricket, come on sweetie,