Cicada

In gray camouflage, in full sun,

I clung to the bark of an oak;

such was the thrill of singing,

uninterrupted and steady in the drought,

a gigantic, pulsing reverberation,

the song my sweetest drink,

until from behind came the fast,

shadow-less hand of a child.

Bottled, I became drunk with spinning

in that sling, singing,

singing, as in a dream, almost without

voice, corked as wine is.