The 13-year locusts fill the air with their mating calls.
A fine-spun shell clings to the weed my arthritic fingers yank from soil of the same drab tinge. My ears ring with the constant humm-m-m— insistent joy—familiar music from thirteen years past. Invisible cicadas sing as they mate, unaware of their fate, unconcerned with the weight of time, while my work-worn joints made me painfully aware of mine.
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