The cicadas start up, high and low
at first, like a machine uncertain
of beginning, then at last the drone
which seems its own silence, so steady,
so capable of making evening its own.
All things seem the murmurs
of their substance, the low voice
not even chant, but surely song
and certainly the way summer
some evenings reckons with itself.
The ease of a porch swing
is the only metronome.