The crickets were doing there best to be allies.
To them, they were simply trying to find the elusive girl of their dreams -- sawing away on their spiny legs. To the soul looking for easy sleep, they were white noise better than any recording purchased from a state fair hypnotist.
The quest was simple. A good night’s sleep to prepare for an early trip to Uruapan. The crickets, if crickets are even aware of such goings on in the human world, were six-legged angels ready to lift the sleeper through the clouds.
But there was no sleeper. There are more than cricket voices in the night.
There are the guardians. The protectors of hearth and home. The dogs of rooves, streets, and courtyards.
The crickets may be spiritual guides, but the dogs are all about the material world.
To dogs the world is filled with danger. They are brave enough to stand their ground and add voice to the voiceless terrors of the night.
But their warnings go unheeded. No master comes to reward the faithful servant. Instead, the dogs -- because there is now a chorus of echoing warnings -- continue their rhythmic barks. Like some car alarm that the owner ignores. Just another layer in the urban milieu.
The unsleep walker seeks relief deeper in the dwelling. On the couch where the proverbial recalcitrant husband seek relief. But the sleeper, being neither a husband or recalcitrant, finds the couch to not be a place of peace.
The night slips by with its discordant notes. To be replaced at the dawn with new voices. The sirens of police and ambulances.
And so the dream of driving down the road to Uruapan slips away.
There will be other days. Just as there will always be voices in the night.
To them, they were simply trying to find the elusive girl of their dreams -- sawing away on their spiny legs. To the soul looking for easy sleep, they were white noise better than any recording purchased from a state fair hypnotist.
The quest was simple. A good night’s sleep to prepare for an early trip to Uruapan. The crickets, if crickets are even aware of such goings on in the human world, were six-legged angels ready to lift the sleeper through the clouds.
But there was no sleeper. There are more than cricket voices in the night.
There are the guardians. The protectors of hearth and home. The dogs of rooves, streets, and courtyards.
The crickets may be spiritual guides, but the dogs are all about the material world.
To dogs the world is filled with danger. They are brave enough to stand their ground and add voice to the voiceless terrors of the night.
But their warnings go unheeded. No master comes to reward the faithful servant. Instead, the dogs -- because there is now a chorus of echoing warnings -- continue their rhythmic barks. Like some car alarm that the owner ignores. Just another layer in the urban milieu.
The unsleep walker seeks relief deeper in the dwelling. On the couch where the proverbial recalcitrant husband seek relief. But the sleeper, being neither a husband or recalcitrant, finds the couch to not be a place of peace.
The night slips by with its discordant notes. To be replaced at the dawn with new voices. The sirens of police and ambulances.
And so the dream of driving down the road to Uruapan slips away.
There will be other days. Just as there will always be voices in the night.
