constant hum of cicadas
invisible in the trees
steady strong hot wind
blows skirts and hair
as sun heats up ancient stones
marble ruins
surrounded by miles of grime and litter of Athens
I look for the insects in the trees
but can’t see them
I wonder
did Sophocles hear the Cicadas?
as I climb the steps of the Theatre of Dionysus
placing myself in
the hot
noisy
drama of existance
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