Legend That summer, just before sunset, I would run to the trees that marked the village limits to meet you. You only spoke to me at dark, your lips rustling against my right ear, your voice merging with the dry spirals of harsh gnarls. Our cherry tree was large enough to be a house, or a ship that would swim across those infirm skies of rust-streaked dragonflies. Feeding on a clear drink of sap together, we fingered each branch to feel that it was seaworthy, and suspended a chrysanthemum doll with a silk string. I had no home but you. I would close my eyes every time I felt your lips on my neck, and my throat itched swallowing a thousand cicadas' voices in a single glass. Short August nights, at the tree's root, we watched the emerald flesh of a cicada coming out of its shell anew; you breathed on its pomegranate eyes and turned them into copper beads. I knew they must be red at the start without having you tell me so. You had already taught me the ideograph for living was the same as for darkening in our tongue.