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It is only between dusk and dawn that we are relieved from the breathless heat and dense, water-logged air of August when no movement of leaves tells of a breeze. For minutes that stretch into hours, there is no bird sound. Now even the house wren is silent.
August — the eighth month — belongs to the insects and the air is filled with a festival of their scrapings, dronings, buzzes and
pulsating beats. The annual icicada advertises his presence fthrough throbbing sound.
Elere I am,” he says to the
males. The rattling drone
gins with volume and force, "winds down, and ends as if the insect has exhausted himself. He hasn’t. After a pause, he “begins again. ( I remind myself that the droning cicada has spent a long time in the dark earth. As a pupae he has slept for seven years, waiting for the summer night when he would tunnel upward, .pause on a tree trunk to shed his skin, and mount to the tree-tops and make the world throb with pulsating sound. A female will find him, they will mate and she will puncture a tender twig and lay eggs. Her time is soon over as is his.
In rural North Caroliha where I grew up and spent my summers, cicadas were called ■“July Flies.” I was called “July Fly” by my father because I was born in the seventh month. Hearing the incessant droning of cicadas takes me back to days when I captured a
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