It's cicada time again at Roseholme Cottage (and the neighborhood). It's an off year for them, so just a skeleton guard of reserve forces is out, occasionally sputtering into silence for a heat-shocked minute or two until, oppressed by the silence, one lone fellow sings out, "Hey, baby, baby, baby, yeah, YOOOOOOOO!!!" and the rest join in again.
Twice now, I've gone outside in the morning to discover an empty husk clinging to the foundation while nearby, the new-freed adult is waiting for his wings to set, patiently immobile, almost done. Both time, they have flown, buzzing, right over my shoulder when I got too near.
Naturally, I'm starting a new collection of empties, those two and two more found nearby:
Ugly bugs or silly, romantic trolls? Possibly both. I continue to like them, singing the song of summertime.
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago