A blistering cadence of cicadas,
Ceremoniously ricocheting shrill cries,
Envelopes my position,
Steadily singing the time.

An array of plush emerald foliage
Entraps me in dead space.
Birds are chirping, bees are humming,
Loam's smeared across my face.

I don't want to see them.
I hope they avoid my scope.
How I wish to freeze time right here
In this moment is a simple hope.

The wind feels so soft across my head . . .
I sigh, "Fuck, identified."
And, just like that, they're dead.