Tonight I saw a cicada coming out of her former self into a full-grown body, white in the dark, naked, and almost luminous. Into the wild.
This is in the city, in our dirty old neighborhood, where nothing sings, nothing shines, nothing seems to be alive. But then the cicada, purely alive, trying to get out of the shell, trying to be born, at 23 o'clock, alll alone, desperately serious, frighteningly joyful.
As if to designate me as her sole spectator.
