The cicadas are back
with their tree top conversations.
They come back around my
When they show up so
do thoughts of the streets I
roamed when all there was
was time to sit on the curb
under the streetlight and talk
about everything and nothing.
They would talk then we would talk.
Our conversations would break,
but theirs would chatter on.
Like background music at a café’
their music dribbled down from the canopy.
We would brush away mosquitoes
and our hair from our eyes while
we questioned the mystery of
the opposite sex.
The cicadas sang.
We would tell jokes and pull fingers
and slapstick each other ‘til we hurt.
The cicadas would laugh.
Our idle hands would ring
doorbells at midnight or
roll an old tire down West Main hill.
The cicadas would try to rouse
We would play “kick the can” or
“hide and seek” or “sardines”.
I was O.K. with never being found.
I would lie under the stars and
attempt to interpret the cicada talk.
Their words would go on and on
like I thought my life would.
I’m in my forty sixth year of
receiving their beautiful gift.
Even now my natural response
is to look up through the trees
and imagine there must be a star
for each of their words.
Infinity of sight and sound
brushes my soul because of a
tiny creature that would rather
be heard not seen.