It's sunny this May, and cicadas,
The 13-year kind,
Jitter incessantly.
They thicken the air with their high-pitched calls for mates,
And, to them, I'm only unnoticed collateral damage.
But their drone is the drone of innocents,
Peacefully living out their heritage.
Not like the drones my taxes pay for,
In a habitat far away.
Magicicada tredecim
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