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In the early morning

Right before dawn,

A chorus of cicadas

Gathered round my lawn.


What were their intentions?

Were they friends or foes?

Since they live about a month,

I guess I’ll never know.


The males gather quickly

And form a big group.

They try to make a loud sound

to stay “in the loop.”


On each side of males

Lies a special part

And when its pulled, their ribs grate

To produce a sound of art.


At the tip of their bodies,

Lies a hollow space.

It amplifies the sound they make,

God’s instrument of grace.


The females lay their eggs

In the trees nearby.

They accept  their fate in life,

Let go, and then they die.


When the eggs hatch,

The larvae fall to the ground.

They burrow in for years,

And then, make a deafening sound.