Cicadas

Cascading inward cutting amble down across sticks  

Into the blacked, moonlit night

Creating an orchestra throughout the forests from mountain to sea consisting only of chirps

     and clicks

A tune with the coming day’s light

Dumb, however, when the pending morn be cold and wet

A sure sign of bad weather for which to be met

Still to this day, from ancient time

            Nature’s own weatherman, who always gets it right, and understands the clime.

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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