the cicadas are growing quiet,
wings worn and tattered
from summer’s symphony,
the melody that brings them
life.

and also death.

a refrain pulsed through their
dreams as they lay
burrowed deep
in sleep
between black roots
and black earth.

and a song rose through
darkness
on some
dry and dusty
Resurrection Day.

Solis!
Viva!
Gloria!
they canted.

perhaps their melody
is the only thing
that carries us
through our dog days,
that soothes
our burning hearts,
that wakes us from
our restless sleep.

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