A pop song fades out on the radio,
my ten-year-old self in the car with mom
heading back home after errands in town.

“I love it when they do that!” I exclaim,
meaning how the band chose to end their song
by letting it get softer and softer

until it vanishes under road noise:
the brisk strum of tires on highway asphalt,
wind fluttering over metal and glass, 

both on top of the engine’s steady drone. 
But mom, a professional musician
who studied piano with Juilliard –

trained instructors and when she was my age
went to summer camp at Interlochen,
brings her erudite opinion to bear.

“Ending a song that way is a cop out.”
She says. “They can’t decide how to finish,
so they let it fade away. It’s lazy.”

I opt not to argue my point with her. 
What can be said to sway such conviction
from a person who reveres Beethoven 

and only sometimes abides The Beatles
being played on our living room stereo?
Our exchange ends with no conclusion. 

Instead, when we slow toward our village,
afternoon sunshine beginning to wane
on the wide fields of tall grass we pass by,

I roll my window down and listen 
to a vast orchestra of crickets chirping,
their music’s gradual decrescendo

as the distance grows between us and them,
understanding it’s a song that goes on
even if you can’t hear it anymore.