What The Dusk Wonders

the crickets constant chirp is tiny, even in late summer. it is a din, unsingable, even by a chorus of any other species. the men don't know how the women sing: to be close to give to be full full of unwavering love, of demands, and of sacrifice. this is what the women sing, late in the day, before sunset, before the crickets sing their tiny song. -- the chickens flew nearly 80 feet up in the air to reach the tallest branch and well up from the fox that gathered beneath them on the fair green grass. the chickens recognized quite readily the fox was quite the remarkable creature: neither cat nor dog yet at least doubly eager to eat a chicken than either its distant cousins. the fox gathered itself a few moments at the base of the heavy pine and wondered who would give in first. but only a few stars sparkled overhead before the fox cleared its clever head and wandered off in search of simpler, less flighty prey: it spied a small mouse sat neatly on the edge of a rock, nibbling a bit of cheddar forgotten by a handful of girls who gathered together in the quiet part of the wood to chatter about blossom colors and the boys who fancied them the summer before. -- what the men don't notice is how absolute is our need for absolute beauty to want what we want without always knowing what we want, to be pushed by fickle winds of fads and favor without having confidence to turn away. the challenge is being beautiful in the dark and light and never to need validation from anyone.