Inspired by Miss Rumphius and Wallace Stevens (of course)

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Cicada in August

I
Within the forest oaks
the only sound is the drum
of the male cicadas.
II
I was of one mind
like the patient oak
that waits the cicadas' climb.
III
The cicada flew into the glass.
It buzzed on its side
like a broken pinwheel
in the wind.
IV
It's one with the marvelous heroes:
The cicada climbs the nearest support,
splits open its shell
and emerges.
V
I do not know which amazes more:
The slow underground life of the young,
or the sight of nymphal skins in August's trees.
VI
The fans blew the hot air
across the room.
Pages curled on the desk.
Far off they were climbing.
Their small sound organ
thunderous.

VII
You admirers of feathered wings,
Do you not see
the long translucent beatings
of this tiny bright eyed thing?
VIII
I know scales and arpeggios,
the tyranny of the bow,
but the cicada
knows the essence
of what I hope to know.
IX
When the cicada
moved on
the oak tree slept.
X
As the cicadas sing
together, throwing their rhythm
into the darkness,
even the bomba dancer
cannot command the beat.
XI
She sped her sports car over highways
her wrists clicking with bracelets.
At night she dreams
all her charms and rings
are cicadas with emeralds
for wings.
XII
The leaves are turning.
The old cicadas must be dying.
XIII
It was hot and humid all day and evening.
The clouds came.
The cicadas clung
to their branches.