Homage to the Cicada
Their silhouettes dot
the tree branches
like salted pretzel-rods,
heralding
summer’s finale:
organic e-Harmony.
A chorus of gragers,
busily clacking their way
through the Megillah
on this hot,
lazy, August afternoon
Buzzing
like one of those electric knives
on Thanksgiving.
You’re always abandoning
your coats,
crispy and unzipped,
hanging
there on the fence, or
or a tree trunk, or
a side of the garage.
Evidence of your existence.