The long days of summer 
           allow me time
   To cut the grass late
        into the evening.

I am accompanied now by
This orchestra of
Insects.  My own cicada
Serenade.

 To many an annoying din
          Of white noise.
     To be shut out with
          Closed windows.

5, 13 maybe 17 years
Waiting to
Sing out loud, called
To the sunset.

   Every tree around me
       Its own ensemble
     Rising and falling
          Almost as one.

It starts in the elm.
Then fading,
The ash takes up the
Rolling line.

   Patience reveals the
               Patterns.
     Not of seconds but
      Minutes and hours.

By the honey locust's
Encore, the grass
Is done and the song
Fades into the night.