081613 #worm How about the locusts outside my bedroom window at Dad's house? Were they really locusts? Does it matter? They sounded exactly like streetlights would sound if streetlights were friendly, organic, ancient, and merrily sad. The slow rise. The insistent, symphonic, triumphant sustain. The sawtooth singing of celestial impermanence. The explanation of the night. The exclamation of raw, cold neutrality as stained by the blood of prepubescence. The window. The metal box fan. The metal screen. The streetlight. The neighbors' house. The unreality of green. The locusts. Falling. The locusts. Soon, they will rise again.