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. 

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