CICADAS REVENGE By Ian Randall Wilson Of all the injustices done by drought sun, the death of trees is worst. No hinge rising, no perch. Home becomes a cracked glare. Of course we are shrieking. There can be no quiet text, no get along. We will not be amiable. If we can't sleep neither will you. We are the harbingers, the bell-ringers, the buzz that calls out the world to save us from ourselves.