In the night the noise of crickets.
Outside the firelight the noise of crickets.
They put their backs to the fire and stare out at the darkness.
They look up at the stars and think of many things.
And in the night the noise of crickets.
They curl into a sleeping bag together.
Mouths press against skin, legs cross over legs.
Fingers catch in their hair, pull back, lengthen their necks.
They breathe together, paced to each other.
And in the night the noise of crickets.
They talk to each other in the space of the tent.
Their voices pressed soft into the pillow.
They murmur their names, their secrets, their secret names.
Hands busy and slow miles away from their voices.
And in the night the noise of crickets.
They die a little that night.
Die again and again, rattling deep in their chests.
Each death is a death, each death a rebirth.
Their eyes are heavy with sleep but time is short.
And outside the crickets are silent.
In the morning birdsong and movement.
The fire is cold, the ashes are cold, the air of the tent is cold.
Inside they are twined together again.
Inside they are unmoving.
Inside they are still, perfectly still, and lifeless.
And outside the morning has come.