“There is another world but it is in this one,” said Paul Eluard.
This one, here, celui-ci in the heavy glittering mid-August summer. Sometimes the tree has one cicada that shatters the insistent sun. Sometimes the chêne has one cicada that cries its passion, shrieks its desire over the noonday field, the shadowless yellow grass. Sometimes a tree full of cicadas will work a trance like gentle dancers.
We are not on our way to over there. We share a house with others in our origin story. We shift around, one thing displacing the next in the everchanging present. The cat takes shallow breaths as it sleeps by the red bicycle in the shade.