The chorus of cicadas
Ten thousand strong
Escalates and accelerates
Then slows and fades
Like the day itself
Like summer itself.
In weeks this noise
Which now seems almost a part of the Earth
Will vanish and the sky be white with silence
And only the whisper of the wings of the late migrations
To make us cry.
The distant train enters the tunnel with whining horn
Its tone dropping from silver major to grey minor as it races inside the mountain
Rickety-rack, rickety-rack, rickety-rack.