beneath the hum of the air-conditioning
i hear a lone cicada singing.
a strange out-of-place voice
among the honey-comb-office noise.
then just as quickly it fades
as bustle and clamour pervades.

then, in a moment of quiet,
arching, it rises to a height,
a simple, soul-stirring symphony,
a lilting, light-hearted litany.
the most precious things of all,
they speak silently to the soul.