Hot summer nights
The insects call
Happy their time has come,
We cannot speak the language,
a million staccato chirpings
run together in a high-pitched scream,
They call to one another,
The choir sings,
The sun is down
The backyard alive,
I sit and listen,
Window open,
Letting humidity envelop my room,
This is their time,
They call, they crawl,
Till morning comes again.
Tags: poetry
Doctor Grandma 
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