Sunday, August 19, 2018

Summer Crooning

All around the world the cicada rhythm sounds the same.

Feels the same, too.

The hot sweaty sing song lilt of a thousand plump little lovers all seeking, all hoping, some finding.

Unhidden is the desire they protect into the breeze, picked up on the wind a sound wave form that travels the same way in this country as the next, the song warm, and pulpy and beaty and pulsy and you fall into it a little as you listen.

The natural imploring sounds of desperation for love, for holding, for belonging, for contentedness, for now, for then, and for the future, future, future pulsing future of the only sort of immortality to be found.

The thrum hum humming lighting up the night under the same stars, in different lands, with oceans and rivers and streams and languages and the genetic composition of the varying locals interacting just the same, doing just the same, enjoying, annoying just the same to the backgroun hum hum hum thrumming that seems to never end in the late summer evening.

The sound travels like I do, traveling like I will, have been, will do again, the feel of that traveling.

The thrum hum humming sounds like the sounds of waking up in your new place.

It sounds like purpose.

It sounds like the wrapping togetherness.

It sound like unraveling.

All around the world the same sound.


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