It’s almost time for the screaming

They lie dormant in the ground
Sleeping
When the time comes
They emerge
In triumph

To wail in the trees

And fuck

How sweet and simple the delicious life of a cicada must be
Bursting through all at once into the sticky heat of high summer

Home of sun tea
Shucked beans
And ripening green tomatoes on a chipped window sill
Flung open to catch the dampened breeze

Can you hear the screaming?
It’s almost time.