A congress of cicadas on the bush at the tip of my driveway,

the edge of the sidewalk where the concrete lip
rises and falls into a storm drain where
the water wails after a subtle rain,

those days more often than not
when the clouds come together and the skies cry,

the clouds that hold the sun at bay,
that keep shadows over the streets
and houses and foreheads,

that gloom the summer days and evenings,

time meant for family television and barbecue
and tossed Frisbees in the backyard,

time meant for sweat and song,

the music of the city like screaming insects,
neither pleasant nor putrid, neither pleasure nor pain,

merely gentle drops on hot skin,

cool reminders of some great balance
that takes years to comprehend.