The crickets and cicadas are conversing.
Their buzzes and strums ricochet around
The foliage, furling into our eardrums.
The thrum of frogs in steady consultation
Play bass to the melody we create. Or,
Perhaps, we’re merely their interpolation.
Do you think they’ll sing differently when we’re gone?
My voice rings aloud
(Fresh from cleaning, baking and waiting).
If a tree falls in a forest…
His voice scrapes out
(Worn from singing, laughing and wailing).
Our goodbyes bounce off the water and seep into slick green skin.
Our footsteps echo off the trees (and sneak through exoskeletons).
Tomorrow they will sing the same: a lullaby ‘till summer’s end.