The forest has been silent . . . here they come,
as one by one they push the earth beneath;
cicada have the rhythm, as they stun,
like zombies start to scale the nearest heath.
In unison they climb the trees and branches,
discard their shell of skeletal remains,
and flex their wings, perform their little dances,
and no one in the forest here complains.
Incessant pitch, a piercing song repeat,
a billion new cicada swarm the skies,
and birds, aquatic creatures love the treat,
they gorge on them before the sweet sunrise.
These flying insects mate and have some fun,
they’re never seen again, ’til time has run.