All that the cicadas had was one day, the gap
between two monsoons. The El Niño
ruins everything. Seventeen years spent
in dark and damp, wriggling their
way out to the promised land. To them the
prime number should meant
fewer competitors, hence more to share.
But now the branches are drown
in moisture. Raindrops falling nearby
like meteors, splashing on the leaves and
releasing 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, with
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.