A cicada emerges from pupation. Photography by D'Arcy Allison-Teasley. Music by Incorporal Air.
(a memory of my hometown)
Summer mornings I often found gargoyles newly risen from subterranean sleep. They would climb the fence before the heat rose and then, their pupal shells splitting down the back, emerge from themselves in a final molt.
They sunned their crimped, wet wings, their greens drying and browning to match the short grass. Then they'd leave their shells on the weathered wood and take flight. I wouldn't often see them after that, but some days when I woke they'd been screaming so long it sounded like silence.
That arid country had, thanks to humans and their imported trees, become the cicadas'. They marked the territory with their bullet-hole burrows, their discarded shells. One morning I found a wing on my porch making a filigreed gesture of light with its veins. I held it to my eye like a monocle to see it slice the world into raindrops.