Where I live, cicada season corresponds with the end of summer. I hear them singing in the trees (sounds like singing to me) and then find their bodies on the ground. It all seems like the cycle of life, when it happens. Kind of sad, and inevitable. I hear the cicada and think, another season has passed. There are only so many summers in a lifetime.

I know your poems was much lighter than this--and it is a lovely poem--but beware when you write poetry: never know where it takes the reader. I read the poem this morning and put it aside because I didn't have time to comment. Wanted to be sure to let you know it had an effect on me. Best compliment you can pay a poet, I think.