Insects whisper secrets from the trees:
Pst, pst, pst—listen to me.
Cicadas call with deafening song:
Mi, mi, mi, mi all night long.
Frog choruses bellow haunting calls
That pierce like paper windows and walls,
Some are hollow: tock, tock, tock,
Like a rod hitting a wooden block;
Others ordinary ribbits you’d
Expect—whether a duet or feud,
Who knows? But when you mimic the calls,
A heavy, listening silence falls.

People who live in big cities probably imagine that nighttime in the woods is quiet. After all, there is little to no human or automobile traffic, few sirens, no hubbub of human activity. Listen at my window at night, though, and you’ll hear a different story. Even walking up my steps in the evening, I’m often shocked by how deafening the insect songs can be—a smothering blanket of sound that makes it hard to hear yourself think. Quiet countryside nights? Think again. We might even have big cities beat on certain summer nights.

For another poem on the sounds of the night, check out “Summer Jazz.”