All day they hum and buzz their song,
Cicadas in the trees.
Their days on earth aren’t very long,
But they don’t aim to please
The humans whose space they might share,
Whose yards and sidewalks crunch.
A cicada’s life has little care,
To mate, to breed, to lunch.
With awkwardness, they fly and land,
They try to climb so high.
Their lives are simple—even bland,
As they take to the sky.
With 17 years underground,
They’ve sprung at last to life,
Then, while they’re here, they voice their sound,
As each male finds a wife.
They add their soundtrack to our spring,
An everlasting whir.
It might seem eerie as they sing,
Or comfort, like a purr.
Is this their peak? Or not quite yet?
It’s just so hard to say.
This visit we won’t soon forget,
Though they’re not here to stay.
As days pass by, these bugs take flight.
They fly without a plan,
Colliding with their meager sight
With woman, child, and man.
Cicadas might get mixed reviews,
With all the mess and noise,
But, still, there’s something we will lose;
This visit has its joys.
There’s something special to a life
So simple and so brief.
They bring some beauty—and, yes, strife—
While pausing on each leaf.
Why God creates these creatures
We may never ever know
With delicate veined features
And those red eyes nearly glow.
How do they count to seventeen
While waiting underground?
And how can bugs so sleek and lean
Make such a massive sound?
Someday, quite soon, they’ll disappear.
Some people just can’t wait,
But others will be counting down
To 2038.
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