Walking a busy street east of the Capitol, I couldn’t see him. But, I heard him hammering a sound from his small inconsequential body. Amid the grass, over the whir of cars tearing into the morning’s wind. I thought how powerful. The voice of this small cricket overcame ugly machinations that speak loudly yet house no souls. I smiled at the constancy of his natural speech spoken no louder than if in a quiet treebox. I thought, he must be an artist.