Do you hear the cicadas?

The flutter of a thousand wings
that quiver and shake
in the last dance of summer?

The irresistable buzz and drone
that calls you to fall into the knee-high river of grass?

The chuckle of a stream
that rocks and rolls in rhythm
to an unending song?

Do you see the orange ball that drops in a purple dusty haze
on the fruited hills?

The trees cradled by a breeze
that sooth in a whisper, keeping time to an ancient lullabye?

The blue velvet sky
shooting stars in our eyes,
Man in the Moon smiling approval?

Do you still hear the cicadas?