Last night the cicadas held a concert in the backyard,
singing Stravinsky and a bit of Bartok,
and other symphonic pieces transposed for insect choir.
By morning they were spent; gone to their cicada bower
high in the leafy realm to rest their voices.
Yet one remained, trilling a desperate measure of Strauss
as a mockingbird caught her by the wings.
All afternoon the mockingbird sings a reprise
of the cicada’s lament, unmindful in her mimicry
that her interpretation is too bright and bouncy
for words of such fervent pleading:
Lassen Sie mich gehen! O ließ mich gehen!
Let me go! O let me go!
© dana hughes