by Elena Hayashi
Maybe it’s the cicadas
bustling in the air loudly, and proudly
presenting their voice, sparking curiosity.
Their melody—
not just a sign of the scorching summer sweat trickling down
my body—
but a reflection of the miscellaneous voices around me
that arise once the heat arrives.
Heat—Wind.
Cicadas—Seagulls.
Maybe it’s the seagulls
squawking by the docks loudly, and proudly
its cries carried by the restless wind.
Maybe it’s the cicadas, no—the seagulls
a new echo of curiosity,
adapting to the rhythm of this new life.
Le Dragon Déchaîné 