A clock feels no sensation when its outstretched hands are twisted in reverse; tadpoles do not cry when stomped upon sunspackled pavement. The unnatural is expected, ecosystems to dry in the shadows.
Crickets lament the inequity of lost homes, sing to objects bent and torn. I ask them: why not go somewhere else? They muse about the last nine-dozen months of blood-weeks, speculate about the new formation of primordial ecologies, croon of companionship where mechanical things rest.