As I write, the forthcoming dusk has painted a pastel-like portrait of a sunset. And Mother Nature herself wraps me in a blanket grabbing hold of my imagination.
The grasshoppers hiss and sing, telling of what the night will bring.
And there were seven different levels. Each tribe of grasshoppers singing to a different melody.
Then the loudest of hisses all but silenced at once.
I remember them sounding like woodpeckers; and once gone, the fainter of the grasshopper hisses crescendo'd into the dominant voice of the evening nearing.
Blades and belts go round.
The peace disturbed, but the stillness still heard.
For the grasshoppers still sing, telling of what the night will bring.
I hear them undoubtedly: Each tribe to a different melody.
And, so too, the melody you sing will be the life you bring.
So sing, grasshopper, sing.