by Morgaine Baumann
When I was ten I found the perfectly
of a cicada
in a parking lot.
I’d thought the heat could speak.
In the ravine below our house
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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