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  • Outside on my brother's porch, I listened to the cicadas buzzing in the trees. It must be how they talk to each other. It was night. What could they possibly have had to say to each other, so many of them, just sitting and eating and vibrating? Maybe just to let each other know they are there among the leaves and branches and darkness. A comfort. Like song. Like Whitman. Tom Waits. Like family. Like friends. Lightning flashed nearby. I waited. A huge crash. Crackly and thick. And messy. It silenced the cicadas. Scared them, I suppose.

    When I was younger thunder and lightning was God angry. Sometimes it still is. Years later, lighting was electricity, which I figured must split the sky in two. Thunder was the sky crashing back together. Train cars couple, too, and sound much the same as thunder. Eventually, thunder was the air exploding in lightning’s heat. I was still in awe. Which is different than fear. I wish I could’ve ask the cicadas.

    Even before the thunderclap passed, the cicadas’ hum slowly re-crescendoed. Another boom of thunder, and scene played again. Over and over. The rain began, quickly blanketing yard. The hum ended. They were out again the next night and so was I. They couldn't care less.

    (note: the pic is cc-licensed by "dmott9"; can be found here:
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