Cicadas ambled

up the tree, branches

straining moonlight

on their glinting shells

left behind now,

clinging to the bark,

furrowed racetrack

abandoned for the air.

How the race

must have changed then,

above the squashed

red-yellow drupes. 

Think of the one 

who led, euphoric

in first place,

only to see another

soaring off, to hear

his taunting song—

or better, think

of the lowly underdog,

inches above soil,

and nearly giving up.

Perhaps he wondered,

I left the earth for this?

feeling strange

before the rupture,

the carapace

parting to expose

gossamer revelation.

Unfurled and flying,

he forgot the race—

said, No, no, 

this isn’t for me, 

said, No, no, 

I can sing like a saw.