They come in swarms, they call them broods,
Their buzzing, constantly renewed.
They sometimes light upon your arm,
Though do not mean a real harm.
Their eyes bug out, a little red,
From a black oval (that’s their head).
Their wings, like glass with yellow veins,
And little legs with orange strains.
The rhythm of their coming varies —
Some 13 years, though others tarry
For 17 years — the species vary —
And there are some who yearly come.
We wake up to their constant hum —
Unharmonious, instrumental thrum.
A background noise you can’t escape,
Though birds will gladly seal their fate.
Factually, they’re pretty cute,
Potential mates might give pursuit.
But if one happens in your hair,
A squeal of fright you might declare.
clarakatalin 