*
But for the shape
You could well mistake it
For a summer cloud –
The moon this evening.
*
Losing their place
They hesitate
Then start again –
Cicadas counting stars.
*
As if climbing this hill
Had made them mine
– the moon, the city.
*
Sapped of its colour
Beneath the streetlamps:
The flowering cherry.
*
Warm wind all night long
Rushing to heaven,
Kindling the stars, even.
*
In my dream
I named them all –
The birds of dawn.
simonhlilly 
Cicada’s counting stars is outstanding.
I mean it’s all good, but that one got me good.
Yep, think that one has the right degree of synesthesia, or innocent mental association, or confluence of object and subject, or confusion of percept and perceiver, or exchange of field and form, or whatever else it is that turns a few words into an effective haiku-type event.