All that the cicadas had was one day, the gap
between two monsoons. The El Niño
ruins all their waiting. Seventeen years spent
under the dark and damp soil, wriggling their
way out. The prime numbers should meant
fewer competitors, hence more to share
in the promised land. But now the branches are
drown in the wet moisture. Raindrops
falling nearby like meteors. They splash on the
leaves and release a sound that is ten times
greater than the weak chirp. A rival that
no cicada would ever expected, and the rival
that seems never to be tired. Except for one day,
that the rain has shortly stopped, and sunshine
leaked from the slit of clouds just like
any ordinary summer, but not this.
There was still a pack of clouds stacking
in the distant horizon. One knew something
is going to happen, but the cicadas did't. So
they shook off the water and started the choir.