il canto della cicala dice la veritÃ
a high priest
of boreal summer
stings the near noon air
sawing electrical sounds
into frictional melodies
and rhythm
gatherers rejoice
hoppers voice
and we humans
go unnoticed
thunder stepping
lightning blind hurries
toward the high wire act
of the Sun
in July
and between us
there are many seasons
turned worlds beyond
any lens memory carries
to see what a soul
in its myriad forms
might want to know
EJR ©
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