The cicadas are like a car alarm, or an orgy. An orgy of car alarms. They scream-sing in chorus, out of tune but in tune with one another. Literally buzzing off one another. Rubbing their thighs together lustily. All desire and friction. Their call is hot and wet and wild. They don’t stop until they die. Til death do us part. Their parts lie in my path, their bodies broken; strewn. They are beautiful in death, alone. Their colours sharp until, like husks, they grind down to dust.