Paideia

Listen — tentative strikes on a snare drum.

(It’s the time of day for thunderstorms.)

Tentative strikes on a cymbal.

(There are no thunderstorms all summer.)

Ripple
through brass grain.

Crepitations
of an insect

that desiccates my sleep —

Cicada-da-sshh!

It comes from the closet where the drums sit,
neglected:

A small boy’s

tentative unerring rhythm.

Cicada-da-sshh!

Drought time.
Not a normal summer.

Cicadas unsheathing.
Throw the door open —

Little Dionysus! Birth of a drummer.

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