Reading Basho, I Notice the Cicadas

The tympanal clicks in the hottest hours
counting out a song in another language.

One of mating, and not of love, 
that I know well and repeat myself 
in the five seven of this poem.


Two Haiku by Basho

Nothing in the cry
of cicadas suggests they
are about to die

Lonely silence,
a single cicada’s cry
sinking into stone

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