Cicada Song

In midsummer the only sound is the swamp,

the night hawks and katydids and cicadas

who weave their own melody through the night

a tongue older than time,

song of the shimmering, scuttling things

who live only for a day and fade away –

and in their effervescence

do not fear death,

do not fear sin -

do not know

the measure of their lives

and do not care

theirs is a hymn not to heaven or hell,

but to the hours of the night -

a faith without fear, a faith truly free -

sometimes, long after midnight,

the street lamps flicker off,

if only for an instant

shuddering into stillness,

the memory of the city slips

up and away into the ink-stain sky

in that instant, it is quiet –

in that instant, we are free.

Robin Happel