We live where their shells litter the land,
where their songs spice the hot air.
Roaring and deafening little insects
sweetening our summers like lemon
to cold, bitter tea.
This is where we are from, you and me.

But up where the corn scrawls across flat fields,
where fat firs and thin pines thrive,
it is so quiet one could sense
the clatter of a pin against cracked concrete,
the unfurling of a patterned quilt,
the wind’s soft sighs of frustration.

No cicadas sing in this northern town.

Only when we returned to the rocks,
the hills, and the heat did we
notice their absence those three
long and dreadful days.

Is it right?
The truck rattles like a thousand
cicada wings, cliffs crawl
beneath armies of old oak trees.
Finally, familiarity is what we see,
for our hearts hound the hum
of many dying bugs
calling us back home.