I heard them for only a few moments in the oaks outside the window,
A few chirrup chirrups far from the familiar machine-line cadence of last summer,
The army of tymbals just getting its troops together for shady, singing marches through the long hot months to come,

To perform their rhythmic, ancient dances in the trees each afternoon and into twilight,
But, it was only early April and then they were silent, until May Day when I heard them again, this time louder and more sure of themselves,

And on that day, later, came the thunder-less rain shower predilections of the endless, unrelenting, unforgiving, sweat of summer,
A metaphor for something hemming
Or a reason to celebrate?

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, May 1, 2017

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