Cicada grubs snugged numerously together
in the weak limb. Slept, dreamed,
devoured tree flesh, grew fat
with organs of song, reproduction.
They'd build
a cage of self to struggle free of, stand
in sun and wind,
fill the sky
with love's deafening racket.
The branch fell, their dreams
rolled on, green dials hidden in boles,
faces in woodgrain and clouds.
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