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Cicada spring,

not quite like cicada summer.

but it’s still 90 degrees,

so it might as well be.

Somehow it was meant to be,

me being here at this exact moment

with all those cicadas droning and flying

and dying

from the ground, from the molt,

three species mix and sound as one,

and I’m here too, letting them lull me,

watching them land on window screens,

cringing when one hits the windshield of the car,

plucking them from the stairs and the door.

It is different than cicada summer,

but still very much the same.

“What do cicadas mean to you?”

I don’t have an answer to that question.

Is it not enough to just like them as they are?

A fleeting life that’s set on one thing.

Do it and then perish,

and then wait once again for your offspring

to do it all over again.

The ones at home I rarely saw cause

summer cicadas are hard to find.

But these are everywhere and I feel spoiled.

I don’t understand how people don’t enjoy this,

the sheer magnitude of their numbers and their

whirring call that takes up the background.

Nope, I just don’t get how no one else is enjoying this but me.