Maybe they've always been loud. It's easy to forget these things. The sound of the cicadas seems, to me, both deafening and part of the background, as I suppose it must seem to anyone who grew up here.
It's the sort of sound you don't generally notice. Until you do. And then when you do it's so obvious and intense, you wonder that you spent even a moment ignoring it in the first place.
Last year, I think I referred to September as the "emotional new year." For some reason, autumn leaves it's mark. It's something to do with the impending school year, that youthful determination to reinvent... to leave the husk of the old self behind.
Most of us spend much less time in school than out of it, but nonetheless, those early years seem to result in a kind of muscle memory. And come fall, we begin doing and feeling those things we did and felt a long time ago. We prepare ourselves. We stand in front of our mirrors, resolving to be something different this year. The fall brings these impulses to life. Maybe it's the smell of rotting leaves. Or the cicadas.
Don't get me wrong. The sudden summer, with it's heat and late nights and general wildness is fun for awhile, but isn't it a bit of a relief to put the blinding sun behind you? Won't it be nice to layer on a sweater again? To turn off the fans and listen to the silence?
It's lovely to live in a place where the seasons change so completely and dramatically. Having lived elsewhere, I appreciate it. It's nice to find, over and over again, that just when you've had your fill of something, something else is right around the corner. You don't have to will change forth, or chase it, or work for it. You don't have to do anything at all.
You just have to wait. And it comes.