Their sound is metallic, as you say: a hum nearly industrial, since every noise in nature is also necessarily historical; and here in Illinois, where they sing or solder all the August day, their notes mark time in quick or labored crescendos. Alone on the prairie, I’m depending on the telephone for words. And when you laugh and describe cicadas you heard thirty years ago by the bay, I hear them better than the sound that now lines my living room like silver, like steel: listen. What else do you remember so sharply? And if that caliber of memory is in you, what else can we ever mean by secrets when we listen to each other like girls, for hours? I want to restore the particles that formed us before we met: sand dune striations, or the toll of grace notes in church songs—all the stucco and the gold. I know that in the last days, all I’ll have is memory: so, yes, I’ll need the milkweed, the hairstyle, all the wet eidetic leaves— to take with me when I wade without you through summer grass grown taller than my sight.