The buzz of dog-day
cicadas (not the periodical kind)
in trees throughout neighborhoods
I frequent on weekends.

Crickets too. It’s morning.
I don’t care what the experts say.
I hear them. And I hear a little boy
tell a little girl:

“I’m just saying quit
while you’re ahead.
While they’re still shaking
their tymbals.”

No, he didn’t
really say that last part.
I look down. Blood
and fur. Where did the rest go?

Stridulation. My wings
remain pinned. A white sock
pinned to the sidewalk
by a mini-bar bottle of gin. Empty.

So many wind & rain & hail
storms to recover from.
Seeing so many
uprooted old trees

hollows me out. Empty. Leaves
scattered across the trail
have not even turned. Green
is not ready to let go.