The-autumnwind

 In this winter I'm eagerly awaiting when the trees will bud and burst forth with blossoms. An though the turning of the seasons is necessary for a trees renewal and growth I'm still longing for spring. What is your favorite tree? Oak? Maple? Honey Locust?

    Late summer smells of dry grass. Heavy hangs the air, full of cicada song. Cicadas are the heartbeat of summer. Their cries echo from tree to leaf, throbbing outside my window.            This insect crawls from the ground, shedding a shell of its former self. Their husks cling to the bases of trees and stone walls early spring through late summer. Empty.     Late Summer, blowing in quietly, soon to fizzle away.  The cicadas drop from the trees. Dry bodies on their backs, wings glistening panels of glass, far sturdier than a butterfly's.    There's a piece of art in all these thoughts. Probably many pieces, but they flit and wriggle