As the cicada season winds down, we bid farewell not just to Brood X but also to our loyal Buzz correspondents. Many thanks for your sometimes weird, occasionally icky but mostly delightful submissions. We'll end the Cicada Chronicles of 2004 poetically -- and since we hate goodbyes, we'll end with not one but two poems.
Cicada
I'm not looking for a Cicada
Neither here nor in Nevada
I read what they wrote
And thought it really was a joke
Got no taste for cader meat
Cause my tummy is discreet
I'll stay inside my cozy shed
Knowing that they'll soon be dead
Then I'll take my hide outside
Mount my bike and take a ride-- Inella Redmond, Baltimore
And finally, from Lillian Zale of Baltimore, who was struck by the symmetry of cicadas and haiku: 17 years, 17 syllables. Ergo, her Cicada Haiku:
Poor, sad, cicada
Waits seventeen years, has sex
And dies that's a life?
