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Cicada

John L. Stanizzi

The sound of a train meanders
along the tracks ahead.
I cannot see it.
I cannot hear it, really –
but its vibration grows,
a low pulse in my body.

Dawn finally,
and an elegant aura
of mist outlines the hills,
a frayed tiara of light
atop the filigree of the hillside.

Birdsong chips away night,
one infinitesimal splinter of dark at a time,
and the cicada,
with its tireless windlass,
will define and describe
and place on display
these languid August days
with their single, sultry lexicon
that rises through the heavy air
all day long,

magical and familiar,
an electric proclamation
to the world
that summer is here,
summer is gone.

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