On Tuesday after a silence
of three months,
where the jungle
throws evening shadows over the bougainvilleas,
all the cicadas shouted out at once;
stretching and releasing their tymbals
like the shimmering and vibrating
of a thousand silver cymbals.

No notices were posted on the trees.
No announcements in the press.
No sergeant major shouted, “one, two, THREE!”
No ragged more or less.
Nothing in their diaries told them when to come.

They all march together to a single, silent drum.


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