The scorpion has long chased the hunter and his dog from the night sky
As the temperatures soar the cicadas “sing” and the hot air resonates both day and night with their intense buzzing.
The cicadas have long been a mystery for me. I had first heard them as a boy when visiting my family in Mexicali and on trips to San Felipe, Mexico.
To hear the cicadas is an amazing experience. It seems as if they are in every tree and bush yet go unseen. The Mesquite, Palo Verde and Palms are filled with them. All is quiet at first, then like some unwritten agreement all start up in harmony all at once. BBBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZZ! Like a frayed power line they buzz until a loud noise startles them, then they silence upon the impending danger.
Once I drove through the summer night enjoying the coolness of the air as an impending thunderstorm neared. My headlights flared as they caught the flurry of something ahead.
WHACK! I am hit in the head by something hard and solid. I swerve the Tahoe off the road and turn on the dome light inside the truck. I look on the floorboard to see a gigantic green “fly” buzzing at my feet. A cicada had just hit me in the temple. I rush home to show Aimee, but she is already asleep. When we both wake the cicada is dead, probably as result of the impact to my skull. She is unimpressed and asks me to throw it out.
Native American legend has it that 2 weeks after the cicadas sing that the rains will come.
The humidity is beginning to rise – the dark clouds build on the horizon.
Once again the cicadas have let us know that the monsoons approach.