Late June 2019

The cicada are busy. They are an odd bug with a short bulbous body and longer cellophane wings. The winter rains, or the seven year itch, have brought them on in force. I’m not sure why it is that they are so active. Perhaps I tune them out during their seasonal comings and try to forget the chatter of their wings, but I’m also seeing more of them.
Today I’ll sit on the porch and listen. It will be one-hundred-something Fahrenheit by afternoon. The sun is already warm this morning, as I step out the front door. I wince at the glare from the east. It’s kind of bright when seen through sleepy morning eyes that are used to being closed.
There is the warmth all down my right side as I face north and listen. The cicada chatter. Like crickets they tend to ebb and flow. When it dies down, there is a calm.
I turn to make my way to the shady porch around the corner. I proceed along the walkway with two empty chairs and a table with a collection of ancient pottery shards. The sun feels good, as if a god is giving me a pat on the back. As I cross, the sun’s blessing becomes a massage. I enjoy the touch, but there has been plenty of heat during the last couple of weeks. This morning, for now, I’d like some cool.
The porch has its couch facing west. It presents a view into the lush desert. I sit down in its charming cradle of fluff. I cross my legs Indian fashion, I sit up comfortably, the mind stays stilled, not yet out of sleep.
The cicadas persist, more ebb and flow, more chatter to calmness. Continue reading →