Song of the Cicada (draft #4)

Cicadas sing the clack and click of timbals,
a cacophony for hot summer days
when sticky sweat runs down slippery backs.

Their timbals buckle out and bend back in,
disperse a shaking sound as of rattles
rising and falling like deep and repeated knife stabs,
unending even deep past dim light into the night
descending out from trees
off into humid and misty airs over fields
of sword grass grown fat off flood plain waters.

Thus the male hearkens to its mate,
and screaming at me through ossicle and cochlea
he becomes proof positive:
time plays out moment by moment,
burdens are rewards all their own,
and the cicada's empty rust-colored shells shed
symbolic carcasses remain an ironic but muted reminder of the cycle of life.

Cicada's Song; Draft #3

Cicadas sing the clack and click of timbals,
a cacophony for hot summer days
when sticky sweat runs down slippery backs.

timbals buckle out bend back in,
dispersing a shaking sound as of rattles
the noise rising and falling like
deep and repeated knife stabs,
unending even deep past dim light into night
descending out from trees off into humid and misty airs over fields
of sword grass grown fat off flood plain waters.

And thus the male hearkens to its mate,
and screaming at me through ossicle and cochlea
he becomes proof positive:
time plays out moment by moment,
burdens are rewards all their own,
and the cicada's empty rust-colored shells shed
symbolic carcass an ironic but muted reminder of the cycle of life.

Cicada's Song; Draft #2

Cicadas sing and the clack and click of timbals,
not music but a cacophony for hot summer days
and sticky sweat running down slippery backs.

The timbals buckle out and then bend back in,
dispersing a shaking sound as of rattles
the noise rising and falling like
deep and repeated knife stabs,
unending even deep past dim light into night
descending out from 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,
burdens are rewards all their own,
and the cicada's empty rust-colored shells symbolic
carcasses an ironic muted reminder of the cycle of life.

Cicada's Song: Draft #1

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.