9:35 p.m. - Friday, May. 28, 2010
The noise was not obnoxious. It was, to me, more plaintive. In the face of being closely confined in an environment that was neither normal or natural, they seemed still to want to communicate. Maybe even find a mate with whom to spend a final night before the morning found them impaled on my fish hook. Their chirping was tentative and subdued.
Now I am nothing if not hard-hearted, but as I sat there listening to them, I was struck by the fact that this is not what was meant for a cricket. They were hostages to something they could never understand; thwarted from filling their true destiny... whatever that may be. I donít know how exactly to explain it but I started feeling...... sorry for them. I knew that when morning came, I could never put one on a hook. My bait money was wasted.
Ann laughed at me. She had bought the crickets for bait so we could fish a little bit on this maiden voyage for the trailer. She laughed at me, but still, she joined me in the morning when I crept to a nearby empty campsite and let loose several hundred hopping little black crickets.
Iím still not sorry I did it.0 comments so far