Cicadas sing with clack and click of timbals,
music an unknown care too slowly evolves:
timbals buckle out and then bend back in,
shaking sound of rattles
rising and falling like a gentle knife stab,
unending in the evening's dim light
ascending up into trees
and off into the humid and misty airs over forest and field.
I imagine grasses thick with rattlesnakes,
or man made automatons set at times
to scream at me through ossicles and cochlea.
And thus males hearken to their mates
proof positive that time plays out moment by moment,
their empty rust-colored shells symbolic
carcasses an ironic muted reminder of the cycle of life.