-This poem reflects on cicadas as the unmistakable sound of deep summer, turning heat, time, and afternoon light into a living chorus.
By late day, from the heated trees,
the sound begins in steady waves,
a rising cry of summer air,
drawn tight with light and living heat.
It fills the yard, the road, the fence,
the fields beyond the garden rows,
until the whole bright afternoon,
seems held inside that single pulse.
No birdsong shapes a music here,
no stream runs cool beneath the noise,
just this dry chorus, wild and near,
the voice of heat made audible.
And still it carries something deep,
not only strain, but ripened time,
the season speaking through the bark,
in all the hours it cannot keep.