A Song of Home

The cool air swirls from a fan in my parents’ home,
Causing me to burrow deeper into my Granny Kate’s quilt.
In the distance, a train whistle cuts through the sleepy drone of cicadas—
mud creatures,
emerging after a decade of sleep,
incapable of moving with ease or speed,
crawling out of their skin,
to begin their song,
with beautiful outstretched wings of lace,
in the dewy, hot midnight of South Georgia.