Driving to Cicadas   The cicadas’ song rises As I drive through a curve around a corner As I change gears, throttling down the years—   The remembered chant lifts, flows Along like a rhythmic hymn A chorus of a million small voices   Congregating up there—a continuous song The humming dirge merges With my weaving, zigzagging journey— The sky is mine they seem to sing.   Do they seek to claim time Make it stop, possessed by passion and song do they seek to keep time, like a lover, enchanted?   Car, cicadas and memory Becoming one shining whirring…