The high-pitched rattle of cicadas,
excited by possibilities inherent
to this muggy, too-hot Sunday
late in summer; the last weekend
for cautious, air-conditioned folk
lounging with the ease of idle men
in oblivion with chilled aperitifs
nearby; soporific, nodding
heads that droop then, startled,
snap back up in search of poise,
mildly shocked to be so caught:
unconscious of the vital music
rising to one hundred decibels
and more from tree to tree;
so many voices making so much
noise their timbal choir outdoes
the sound of Snow Patrol,
and half-imagined, distant roar
as your long-haul, northbound jet
accelerates down runway three
to reach the point of no return,
and, climbing, heads for home.
.
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