The Cicadas

Where do they go, when down the hard rains fall, The small and gossamer things, The frail, the faery wings? What shelter do they find, what roof, what wall? A thatch of leaf, the underside of a bough, A cranny of bark, maybe, A crevice in a tree, A hole, a crack -- for they survive, somehow. After the hail, after the slashing rain Miraculously they appear. Listen, they are here Raising their multitudinous chant again. The tiny animate Against the unpersonned great, Life, undefeatable, singing with all its might Before the encroaching night.

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