She perches on her bed

Like a bird

Blankets and comforters swirled around

Her legs like a nest.

Taking in the serene grey of the walls,

The white lipped windows.

She waits for the clouds to disappear.

The night awakens

Trees have gone dark

No more sunlight their branches catch

The moonbeams sit on the sill.

As she starts to settle in

She listens to the cicadas

Chatter and whisper,

having secret conversations.

The thud of her own heartbeat

Interrupting their whispered stories.

For comfort, she looks to her friends




Trying to find solace

In silly constellations.

But the old grandfather, big dipper

Is always slightly in the way

Obstructing her view

Out of large portholes.

As sleep finally overtakes her.

She startles awake to a whack

As her window flies open

The hinges giving way to the force of wind

as the frame slams into the wall.

With heart pounding and a dream being forgotten

She scurries out of her sheets

Sniffing the soft, fresh air

As she closes the window.

The cicadas still whisper.

She envelops herself in quilts once more

Wondering if the cicadas

Become tired, or if their voices die out.

If they nibble and taste the wild Chamomile

To soothe their throats

While the melodious crickets take their place

Or if they share secrets in euphony.

On that thought she floats into sleep once more.

Sometimes the alarm that wakes her

Turns into a hiss

Maybe static, possibly just her imagination

She glances at the soft glow under her door

Aware her family is awake as well

Even now feeling alone

But thinking

At least

She still has

The cicadas.



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