The Cicada. Linoleum block print.

I found a dead cicada and brought it home to sit on my windowsill next to a tomato that needs a little more sunshine to ripen. His iridescent wings are still beautiful. The prehistoric looking shell of a body and beady eyes are perfectly intact.

I don't know how to tell if it is a male or a female. I'm pretending it is a male. It seems more romantic. Only the male Cicada sings. I like singers. Especially human male singers. I don't date them anymore though. Dating a Cicada would be much less burdensome. And they are more likely to be eaten by a squirrel or deep fried.  That is a more heroic way to end a friendship.

As it is, this singer that sits on my windowsill is perfect. He's already dead.