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neverspentIt's prime time for the cicadas now. They're not just heard, they're seen. I haven't found any nymphs' husks yet, but I've seen a few dead cicadas about, and one morning last week, there was a live one clinging to my window screen. I went outside to try to get a clear photo of him, but he buzzed away when I moved the door.
Tonight I was outside for awhile, listening to a radio program of Celtic music on my mp3 player. The cicadas were louder than the radio, of course, so I could hear both. When a fiddle tune came on, all of a sudden I had a flashback to childhood: summer nights, sitting out in the grass in the front yard, listening to the cicadas and hearing our neighbor in the distance, playing his fiddle. He lived across the road and up the hill through the trees. He was a somewhat famous traditional mountain fiddler, and when he had his children and grandchildren over he would play for them. And we would relax and eavesdrop.
Tonight I was outside for awhile, listening to a radio program of Celtic music on my mp3 player. The cicadas were louder than the radio, of course, so I could hear both. When a fiddle tune came on, all of a sudden I had a flashback to childhood: summer nights, sitting out in the grass in the front yard, listening to the cicadas and hearing our neighbor in the distance, playing his fiddle. He lived across the road and up the hill through the trees. He was a somewhat famous traditional mountain fiddler, and when he had his children and grandchildren over he would play for them. And we would relax and eavesdrop.