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There are things in my life of which I'm not proud
But my letting friends down tops the list, 
I guess I could let my mind walk in a cloud	
But the friends that I've lost are still missed.

Friendship can be offered to so many things, 
There are ‘Friends' of the Earth, Air and Sea, 
But the friendship I now am remembering	
Was unique, just Cicadas and me.

When our friendship began I really was young, 
My back yard's huge elm was their home tree, 
My heart penetrated by song that they'd sung, 
Like lights their voices hung palpably.

New eggs would hatch, their larva drop from a leaf, 
Nest between bricks of Mom's patio, 
For three years drink sap really causing no grief, 
Survive our summer's heat, winter's snow.

Then in the third year adult nymphs would appear, 
Begin climbing whatever they could, 
Propelled up like they knew that heaven was near, 
Split their backs to find true adulthood.
 
This is where little sis and I would come in, 
We had a whole bag full of tricks, 
The nymphs that we couldn't drown out of their holes
We would simply fish out with small sticks.

The next step, transporting our catch to the house, 
Just to watch their backs split was so keen! 	
We had no TV, and ‘quiet as a mouse, '
We would wait for the show on our screen.*

As the adults emerged, their wings would unfurl, 
Gradually harden, taking their shape, 
The very next morn, to the sky they would hurl, 
Buzz our hands with their wings, then escape.

This is the moment my poem must turn dark, 
Cicada killers come to the scene.
I know that to knock this poem out of the park, 
I must hit you with truth that's quite mean.

We all know the harsh sound that cicadas make, 
Their most sweet serenade for a mate, 
But there's a second sound no one can mistake, 
When cicada and killer conflate.
  
It screams! Yes it screams! There's just no other word! 
How it screams all the way to the ground! 
Such a cry that your soul inside you is stirred, 
Even now my eyes tear at this sound.

The boy that is me, oh my God! He's angry! 	
Watch him search for a stick or a stone, 
The fatal wasp's death his avenging decree, 
Nor can he bear to hear his friend's moan.

The wasp's sting won't kill, just paralyses prey, 
Which is dragged to its underground hive, 
She bestows on her victim a one egg array, 
Which on hatching eats its host alive.

So wasp and friend are now both dead at my hand, 
Though my friend could have come out much worse.
The wasp might complain I usurped God's command…
I still wish her more pain than a hearse.	

So now that the man is no longer a boy, 
What can we say about him that's true? 
Let's suppose that he knows you're his greatest joy, 
Do you think that he'd kill to save you?

Brian Johnston
March 16,2014

* This is a small joke for those of you who have always had a TV in your lives. My family did not have a TV in the house even until the early 1950's and even then the picture was fuzzy and the sound poor. The word 'screen' as used here refers to the wire screen in a window used to keep bugs out when the window was open.

I am still haunted by the anger I feel toward Cicada Killers. It is the only time in my life I have ever killed anything that I truly hated. I feel so lucky that I have never had that kind of feeling (yet)  for any other human being and was able to serve my country in a non-violent fashion in the US Peace Corps though given a deferment from military service because of a hand injury.
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