Cicadas

Cascading inward cutting amble down across sticks  

Into the blacked, moonlit night

Creating an orchestra throughout the forests from mountain to sea consisting only of chirps

     and clicks

A tune with the coming day’s light

Dumb, however, when the pending morn be cold and wet

A sure sign of bad weather for which to be met

Still to this day, from ancient time

            Nature’s own weatherman, who always gets it right, and understands the clime.