The cicadas have spent seventeen years dreaming under the earth, and now their wings sing of the death racing towards them. Quick, they say. Hear me now. Today I am a jewel, a storm cloud, a sign of the times. Tomorrow my sisters and I will be piled together on the grass to rot in our decadence.
I am safe from their Greek chorus for now. Flinched from the live ones auditioning to be my own personal satellite, tried to avoid crunching the shell casings ambitiously advertising themselves as my newest brooch. Made it to the car unscathed.
The sun is shining outside and I sing old Appalachian songs on the way to the doctor's office. They sure seem to know Death, those old mountain musicians.
The drive home is quiet for a long time before I start singing again. Another year, I ask. I’m not ready for icy hands and traveling shoes. But I still sing songs of death. I sit in my cloak of feathers, a swan in her final days. Lamenting and mourning, accepting and rejoicing. What blackness awaits me, what sweet sleep I will have.
I think I will see my mother.
E. Murray is an Italian-American poet and dog-lover. This is her first published work.
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