Katydid place a call in the middle
of the night from the rooftops
and the trees.
From the trees and rooftops,
be-boppin' scat to the background
of a distant drum that's always
on the way over the horizon
but never arrives.
Katydid place a call to rival
the sound of a thousand mutated
crickets as the moon glides low
enough to hide under the tallest limbs.
And somewhere fingers are pointing,
somehere truth can trickle down
like receding storm lines in a million
different stories with a million
different endings, the ones that say
death is a way of life, the ones telling
you to interpret the concept as change.