moving desks all afternoon into the building
while the cicada song swelled and dissipated
from the maple that had claimed the baseball field,
leaves perforated by Japanese beetles.

there were still doors, though we were just beginning
to use them, to prop them open to
make way for families carrying more desks.

countless bodies in chorus,      in relocation,

the school was found unoccupied in
the depths of a wooded subdivision. some parents told me
they had been praying.
they told me the angels do live in heaven and yes
the angels do live in heaven.

the only things that were already in the building
were the clocks     

it is the cicada's exoskeleton that produces the song,
not the wings like I had previously thought—

countless unseen bodies in chorus,
it all sounded like a story I'd heard.

I started to believe the cicadas were the angels.