Where the Cicadas Sing

We live where their shells litter the land,
where their songs spice the hot air.
Roaring and deafening little insects
sweetening our summers like lemon
to cold, bitter tea.
This is where we are from, you and me.

But up where the corn scrawls across flat fields,
where fat firs and thin pines thrive,
it is so quiet one could sense
the clatter of a pin against cracked concrete,
the unfurling of a patterned quilt,
the wind’s soft sighs of frustration.

No cicadas sing in this northern town.

Only when we returned to the rocks,
the hills, and the heat did we
notice their absence those three
long and dreadful days.

Is it right?
The truck rattles like a thousand
cicada wings, cliffs crawl
beneath armies of old oak trees.
Finally, familiarity is what we see,
for our hearts hound the hum
of many dying bugs
calling us back home.

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About the Author

Anna dwells in the forests and hills of Northwest Arkansas, accompanied by her cat, Pippin. She received her BA in Professional-Technical Writing from the University of Arkansas at Little Rock – but her true passion is creative writing. Throughout her journey as a storyteller, Anna has published both memoirs and poetry. When she is not writing, she is often found reading, drawing, or playing video games. Anna is currently working on a dark-fantasy book series, which involves dragons, Druids, and a world woven by fate.

Anna Robertson
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