An Education

by Morgaine Baumann

When I was ten I found the perfectly
preserved body
of a cicada
in a parking lot.
Before that
I’d thought the heat could speak.

In the ravine below our house
rabbits wailed
at night.

I lived there as a child,

watched a pack of coyotes
rip meat from bone.

In a dream
the screams I heard made the dry grass bend and fold in on itself,
golden points hiding churning beds of katydids.

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