Cicada Moon

Each of us leaves

our shell

clinging

to the branch of a tree

at the end of Summer 

for a boy

who is walking around

the lake

listening for the sounds

of cicadas- 

that long jawing valve

of an accordion

cutting into thick night- 

hoping for one last

glance under the moon,

one last peek

at the musician,

and who finds

just the exoskeleton of romance

harbored to bark.