Why We Tell Them the Truth

Cicadas loud as lawn mowers crop the night.
Eyes wide, my girl asks, What is that sound?
She will swallow any story I feed her. I could say,

with his sharp teeth, a flying shark saws the sky,
or
it’s a string of lightning, sizzling and alone,
looking for a little electricity.
       It’s God’s radio all static-y.

Because this world is wondersome enough,
I tell her, bugs that rattle, I say cicadas,
and imagine what monster she conjures:
part maraca,
part shaking snake,
thunder shedding skin.