...that the temperature is going to start to skyrocket again tomorrow. They're like a living, chattering weather station, whirring with increasing intensity as the mercury climbs. Right now, they're engaged in a sunset call and response battle with the field crickets, who rise to supremacy when the moonlight glows and the cicadas diminish.
Sometimes, it's hard to believe how close I live to a major commuter road when all I can hear is this symphony of clicks, the levels rising and falling like a wave off the beach. When the cicadas settle in silence for the night, the crickets will be quiet enough that I"ll be able to hear the freight trains clacking down the road and the strange, rounded sound of brakes being applied on the Metro trains as they pull into Grosvenor Station.
And in the quiet, I'll hear the last planes of the night, on approach to National and Dulles. Bringing loved ones home to waiting family and freshly made beds. Bringing businessmen in to airport hotels to prepare for Monday meetings and far too many paper cups of bad, strong coffee. And soon, bringing my friend back.
So many words, so many ideas, unspoken, unheard, for so long.
Just the crickets and cicadas to hear me. And they rarely find my thoughts enlightening or entertaining.
After all, it's all just chirps and whirs and chattering of another organic sort. Understandable, translatable by only that few we choose ourselves.
2 comments:
You could write the hell out of a paper bag, sister.
That was beautiful.
What a lovely post :)
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