Subterranean by design

I heard the cicadas this morning
And my soul stopped
For some precious seconds
To soak it in
Such a blithe chorus
Trumpeting their arrival
Long-awaited but forever on time
And as so often am I
In these older years
I found myself taken back
By their summer song
Thirteen, seventeen
Twenty-six, thirty-four
Thirty-nine years ago
I'm in Uncle John's field
Catching fireflies in a jar
Tying string around a June bug
Then I'm lying on a trampoline
In my parents' backyard--
--my backyard!
And I can hear them hum
It seems they were always there
Not merely once every
Thirteen (or seventeen)
Trips around the sun
Just then
The abacus in my brain gets done
It has arrived at fifty-one...
Fifty-one!
And I realize with a smile
And the warmth
Of a Christmastime fireplace
We share a birthday
These creatures and I
For their reassuring refrain
Would have been
Among the earliest sounds
My ears would know
Under that mulberry tree
In my mother's arms
By the old Dodge Dart
In sand-pebble beige
No wonder it seems
They were always there
Not merely once every
Thirteen (or seventeen) years
Subterranean by Design
This is no overnight sensation
To abide that long
Almost a lifespan
In the underground scene
Then to emerge
For but a few weeks
To cause such a ruckus
To stir up a childhood
To elicit such heart smiles
This is no minor feat

I heard the cicadas this morning
(Magicicada, scientifically)

Magic?

Indeed!