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We got back from Wiscon early last night. Walking around the block after dinner we wondered, where were the cicadas? They had just been emerging as we left on Friday. Where was the overwhelming racket we'd been promised? Had we missed them? Don't worry, our neighbor assured us--they're out, they just take a couple of days to learn how to sing.
This morning, they've figured it out. The oldest trees are covered with cicadas. The silhouettes of trunks are raggedy with them even from the other side of the yard, even from my second story office window. Now I can hear the high-pitched chirr outside, rising and falling over Stan Rogers' baritone.
If they did this every year, I would probably find it annoying. But every 17 years? That's automatically cool. They're a mark of permanence and regularity, and the failure of the suburbs to triumph entirely over nature. They're a common experience binding everyone who hears them.
It is, of course, entirely possible that in a month I will be somewhat less enamoured.
This morning, they've figured it out. The oldest trees are covered with cicadas. The silhouettes of trunks are raggedy with them even from the other side of the yard, even from my second story office window. Now I can hear the high-pitched chirr outside, rising and falling over Stan Rogers' baritone.
If they did this every year, I would probably find it annoying. But every 17 years? That's automatically cool. They're a mark of permanence and regularity, and the failure of the suburbs to triumph entirely over nature. They're a common experience binding everyone who hears them.
It is, of course, entirely possible that in a month I will be somewhat less enamoured.
