if i were to slip sideways between trees between worlds, blur my edges until my skin turns scale and bark and hide – it would be a soft rain, mud morning like this; with a dawn chorus of frogs pulsing cell membranes, jubilant, tympanic. and as the sun climbs the clouded sky cicadas will while…
loud like the taste of rain on my skin the cicadas sing the end of summer. drawing by Tim Hewitt-Coleman