Getting rough out here.
The cicadas of late summer are silent.
Their crisp skins, strewn around
mixed with acorns
and lifeless leaves.
My path is crossed by doomed survivors
old bees getting a final buzz off of their chests
limping crickets fooled by mid-day sun
crazy drunken flies in kamikaze loops.
The praying mantis I spy
poised on a fire escape downtown
has no religion.
And the green katydid
flying toward me
with impossible wings
These squirrels are way ahead of me.
Summer was just a dream
and they knew it.
– text by Tullio DeSantis