Cicadas contribute to the silence With their impious reproductive racket A cloud of whistles, whirrs, buzzes, and clicks In the otherwise still and stiller noon
An old man rests his shovel and himself And sits in the flickering shade awhile To think of nothing while sweet incense rises Up from the sacred bowl of his Peterson’s pipe
The Eternal breathes silently over all (Them cicadas sure is noisy, though)
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com – it’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.