05 Aug
The 17-year cicadas are busy providing the background
song for this summer. Brood X is living up to its reputation.
The tymbals are drumming their mating call. Meanwhile,
the pit bull and I take our seats (or sides) because nothing of
great significance happens without sitting first. It's not
the position of the body as much as of the heart. 

The porch is our watchtower. A squirrel overhead wails on
a branch for about 20 minutes nonstop. It sounds
melancholy as if it had lost its mate or best friend and is
quite inconsolable. The cicada sound seems to egg it on.

I sip bone broth while reading from Paul in Romans 5
while a yellowjacket investigates the rim.

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Posted by on August 5, 2021 in Poetry



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