I see a baby cicada.

It is climbing up.

From the soil, to the ground.

From the ground, to the tree.

I can hear the sound of steps.

I can see dirt on the little creature’s head.

Then it begins to leave its shell.

Pulling out and pulling out.

First the head, then the thorax.

And at last the wings and abdomen.

It waits for the wings to dry; they are so shiny and white.

Finally, it can fly.

The sun had just set when it began to climb.

But it is midnight when it flies.