No matter when the cicadas sing, the sun and the son, divides up the plants and the Earth and so everything keeps time and measures space: the fledglings on the wing, the white snakeroot in the woods, the thistles in the field, the prickly teasel by the road, the fierce wood nettles by the side of the path, the clover in the grass, the wingstem with its golden petals, the ironweed so bright blue.
And all of these things and countless fit under the dome of the cicadas' mating calls, marking out separate plats or spaces in the vast time of summer.
And as the sun passes overhead, it forms a pathway that opens and wakes certain species and closes and puts others to rest for the year.
Within this continual division matter is separated into micro-seasons that intertwine and overlap, weaving nature into physical time that guides the walker through fields and pastures, following the songs of the cicadas under which.
Every flower measures sun and land, Leaves trails north across fall, south across spring, lays and weaves a map of sky and Earth.
