Mid-August
I’m awoken
To the noise of the annual cicadas
In the morning
Through open
Screened windows.
Louder than the birds were
Announcing
The arrival of spring.
These developed adult wings
Of once silent larval insects
Sing emphatically
Of the approaching
End of summer.
Their chorus is purposeful
And tireless
Like the feedback
Distortion
From Hendrix’s guitar
On an overdriven amp
Invoking transition.
Cicada tymbals
High in the trees
Encourage me
With their electric drone
To sleep longer.
Promising me everything
Is the way I left it
When I fell asleep
Last night
To gentle rain
And Chet Baker crooning
Almost Blue
From the other side
Of summer.
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