The summer cicadas are deafening.
In their insistent call, they drown out the chirps of birds.
The birds, though, know something the cicadas don’t,
And it is this knowledge that makes their song less urgent, less heard
They know that summer will come to an end.
They know that the cicadas – and their call, will die with the first breath of fall.
They know they will continue on, through winter, into another spring and then summer
to hear the urgent, short-live call of the cicada.
so happy that you’re posting your poems. thank you for sharing them.
this makes me think of paintings to make.