The Attack of the Cicadas

I am tired of fighting. Our small trees are killed. The birch is dead. The elm tree is dead. The old trees are all dead. And now it is the young trees that may not survive. That which led the young trees is dead. The cicadas are swarming, and we have no cheesecloth. We have no pesticides. The little saplings are being swarmed to death. My tree branches, some of them, droop under the weight of cicada eggs, and have no wraps, no protection. No one knows what to do — perhaps running away. I want to have time to look for my red maples, and see how many of them I can find. Maybe I shall find them among the dead. Hear me, my arbolists! I am tired. My heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands I will fight no more forever.