An annual cicada's song is the quintessential music of August, a sonorous vocal offering from jeweled beings who emerge from the ground, shed their nymph skins, climb high into the light-filled trees and sing for a handful of days before expiring and returning to earth. It's a joyful and ecstatic element in the slow irrevocable turning of one season into another.
Only male cicadas sing but oh how they do sing, vibrating the complex abdominal membranes called tymbals over and over again to generate a raspy tune that will attract a mate. This one may be the bigger Linne's cicada rather than a Dog-day cicada, but whichever one he was, he was absolutely gorgeous.
I often find abandoned cicada shells on trees in the Two Hundred Acre Wood, but I always feel fortunate when I encounter a newborn in all its pastel green splendor, sometimes still clinging to its discarded self. Imagos (new adults) darken as their exoskeletons harden and wings expand, but there is a fair bit of variation in coloration. Some will retain greenish wings all the days of their lives.
There has been a remarkable hatch of cicadas in the village this summer. For the last week or two, we have been rescuing them from sidewalks, driveways and roadways and moving them to safe perches in mature trees where they will not be trampled by pedestrians or moving cars. On early walks, Beau and I keep a eye out and we always encounter at least two or three before we arrive home again. Evenings, I take my mug of tea out to the garden and listen to cicada serenades before the sun goes down, and I shall be sad when I go outside one night, and there are no cicada songs to be heard.
Call it "cicada mind" and cherish the notion. Our task is one of cultivating just this kind of patience, acceptance, rapt attention and unfettered Zen sensibility, of embracing our allotted days fully and singing wherever we happen to be, then dissolving effortlessly back into the fabric of the world when the time comes.
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