Getting a buzz from raising the dead (cicada)

In the weeks and days before monsoon,

 rain is not a promise.

 It is a hope, 

and a tease.

 I  see it walking across the sky as I walk across the desert.

The cicada was perfect and perfectly still, so I picked it up, placed it on my palm. 

I admired the beautiful wings

contemplated a noisy courtship

the nuances of gratification

so much to accomplish as life shortens

and, forming a cage with my fingers,

carried the insect home.

Just as I entered the house, my hand

buzzed.

zzzzt                               zzzzt                                 zzzt                                     zzzt                     zzzzt

 I grabbed the camera with my other hand and headed to my outdoor worktable.

Cicada and I looked at each other for a moment

and then the little being I had mistaken for dead 

stood on its head 

spinning in moves 

that would impress a break dancer.

a final performance

a memorable dance of death

I'm still hoping for rain

and a noisy courtship.

Ways to go wild in the desert

"I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw." (Hamlet).

 Crepuscular creature that I am, I often walk the desert starting at dusk and into the night. Last night, responding to the monsoons, lovely poisonous white datura bloomed amidst yellow brittlebush covering much of the paths to and from the labyrinth. 

Three Cooper's hawks flew close above me at the dimming of the day. later, a fourth hawk landed in a tree and watched me photograph the flowers.

On my way home, I was thinking, "If I were a snake, I'd like to be in this undergrowth..." and then just as I reached a clearing, I almost stepped on this king snake.