Cicadas, of course; and crickets.
Provence thinks it owns all cicadas:
Ceramic cicadas, cicadas printed on tablecloths,
Wind-up cicadas singing click, click, click,
All for those of us who return from France to
our own cicadas in Maryland, Virginia, Ohio.
I feel closer to crickets.
The night our then-young family moved
from our Ohio clapboard home
to our Maryland pseudo-Tudor home
built into a wooded hillside
the click of crickets sang welcome
in every corner in our rooms
until the birds began the dawn.
Twenty years later–or was it one second?–
on the night my husband died
the crickets sang goodbye from early dusk
until the sun arose.
Ten years have passed, and now alone
on the patio of my urban apartment
I hear cicadas, crickets–
late summer, Provence, my husband.