July 22nd 2016

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searing
····the grasses—the cry of summer’s first
········cicada
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I had been wondering when I would hear the first cicada and heard it yesterday. The cicadas in Vermont are less haunting that those in Ohio—the place of my childhood. In Ohio we called them locusts. The cry of the Ohio locust isn’t a steady cry but a rise and fall in volume—the same pitch growing in volume three times until it fades and drops in pitch. To my childhood ears the cries always heralded autumn and seemed tinged with regret. Parts of Ohio are swarming, this year, with the 17 year locust. The creatures look fearsome but are utterly harmless to touch or hold.
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259 July 22nd 2016 | bottlecap
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