An invasion of winged predators storming the air with cooky sounds
sprawled in heaps on the ground, some mashed by smashing footwear,
others intact on their backs, still flailing.
Hot mornings bloated with swarming creatures, excitable movements
causing humans to do the dance away from epicenters.
We can’t see or hear like before.
Stillness of thought has to be drowned by sounds of choice that counter
loud chatter amongst an army of invaders, too many to defeat.
It’s the phenomenon hat happens every 17 years: an odd number
and infuriating reality for weary inhabitants, who can’t freely partake
of rejuvenating outdoor scenes.
What used to be a thoughtless trek down the road has become a tedious
effort to scam our way past the robust hives of shedding nymphs.
The singing miraculously stops by sundown, but during peak days
spirits are entangled in the menacing songbook that can’t be disturbed.
Nature’s cycle intervenes as reminders of what’s beyond our control.
Not believing in anything is lonely and selfish.
Exactly 17 years from now, most of us will be long gone,
and another batch of the wickedly stunning disrupters
will be back to sound the alarm.
Indoors, the laser show of buzzing and cruising from branch to branch
with the breeze as engine and sunlight for fuel, gives the outside
extra incentive for Mother Nature’s sharp tongue.
Some swear they add spice to homemade nachos,
while local bakeries are capitalizing on a new spin
for chocolate-covered confections with extra crunch.
For me, it’s the get-out-of-town card that makes a future getaway
seem like a risk worth taking, despite increasingly unfriendly skies.
Cicadas, Cicados, Cicadis!
Whatever you call them, hell on earth definitely comes with a twist.
But figuring that out during this furious nesting will have to wait.
Meanwhile it’s back to sweeping away lifeless shells,
and counting the days…
