Cicada Burial Ground
Shrieks echo
from both neighbors
and pesky little warts
that have infected
our streets.
They once were hard
to spot
but now they swirl
about our heads
ringing
in our ears—
dinging
our windshields
as I flinch being
forced to smear
their leftovers.
Thousands
of baby deer
crowding our earth
winging their way
into your hair and unfortunately
my mouth.
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I love the last stanza. “Winging their way” is a good phrase, and then the surprise (horror) of “my mouth”!