Cicadas, of course; and crickets.
Provence thinks it owns cicadas:
Ceramic cicadas, cicadas printed on tablecloths,
Wind-up cicadas click, click, click.
As one who’s returned from France to
homeland cicadas in Maryland, Virginia, Ohio.
I feel closer to crickets.
The night our then-young family moved
from our Ohio clapboard house
to our Maryland pseudo-Tudor home
built into a wooded hillside
the click of crickets sang welcome
from every corner until the birds began
the dawn. Twenty years later,
on the night my husband died
the crickets sang goodbye
until the sun arose.
Ten years have passed, and now on the patio
of my urban apartment I hear cicadas, crickets.
Late summer, my husband, Provence.