by Aaron Robertson
Newly-spent cicada skins
race to some uncertain end,
microscopically speeding ahead
heedless of their basic loss.
Metamorphosis past, these
nymphal instars have long since
ejected into winged existence, cast
amongst a maze of supple leaves.
Summer has come, coalesced,
and must suddenly go for those
whose evanescence seems unfit
to remake a species so persistant.
Desperate noise now envelops this
canopy, sibilant with the syncopated
buckling of abdominal membranes meant
for a thousand sympathetic sides.