The cicadas have gone
The air stops buzzing with
the first cool whisper of fall.
The wall of voices is silenced,
leaving only the faint scuttle
of leaves swept across the
concrete by my boots.
Gone is the throttle of wings
constant as the sound of my pulse:
usually imperceptible, but
impossible to ignore once noticed.
The silence won’t last.
The song of a thousand
drunken violins
does not simply die
with the coming of fall.
In 17 years the offspring of
this summer’s cicadas will emerge
from the dirt. They will pick up the
song where their parents left off.
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