a sighting of a mountain cicada, green-shrouded
silent, perhaps dying or dead
a gentle thing out of place on the hot tarmac of the road
far different from the first brood that appeared one year on the Gulf
huge monstrous beings with bright red eyes
wings so sharp that they would draw blood
if their pointed neon-hued legs did not do that first
(I bled a lot that year, being insatiably curious)
soon they were EVERYWHERE
covering not just trees but everything outdoors
coating the banks of bayous and the surface of the pool
they changed the rhythms of life by making us adjust
then vanished, a short season of dark magic
we called them soldier boys
I never knew why
Leave a Reply