cicadas

In the morning they begin
their shrill scream, trill
from every tree till the day
shakes with it--

Chew jagged great bites
of bean leaves, leave
vein laced rags
that yellow on the vine--

Leave their cast crisp shells
behind, backs split,
the empty legshells grasping
still--

The bugs themselves, dropped
beneath trees, a green
gleam fist big,
and glassy gold laced wings