Beautiful sunset tonight. The cicada are singing. August is their time. A frog joins them; another welcome voice as summer draws to a close.
At the moment, I'm resisting photographing the clouds. I've been photographing everything around me for so long . . . colorful scenes, unusual moments, perspectives, common wonders . . . whatever catches my eye. I need to sit this one out just to prove to myself I can.
The cloud colors run from grays, light pinks and lavenders to shades of purple the color of new bruises.
Now the glow has faded. The pinks and lavenders are gone but the cicada sing on under the darkish clouds, mixing their voices with low rumbling thunder from somewhere beyond Alligator Creek.
And now it's night. The cicada are silent again. So is the frog. Lightning from a far distant storm occasionally flashes the dark.
Language itself is a barrier.
4 comments:
I heard the cicadas a couple days ago. I mean, I became aware of the jet plane decibel levels of their signature sound in the trees. I'm glad it means summer is almost over, because I am almost ready for it to be.
HAHAHA... I'll trade you the sound of whooshing cars, the mid-night death like silence in the mangroves and my tinnitus for about a million or two of your cicadas.
That's true--you don't notice the tinnitus!
Yes. It sounds like the cicada but the bugs are louder.
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