Morning is quiet again. Sort of. The distant whine is gone and when I step out on my deck, birds are all I hear. The cicadas started early this summer–not the usual ones, not the dog day ones, not the ones that make me sad. These were the Magicicada Brood III, the Iowa Brood, the ones that emerge every seventeen years.
Their noise traveled through the woods every morning and stayed for the day. The ones in our trees were quiet until the sun hit hard, as though they wanted more sleep before they added their rolling rhythm to the collective drone.
They slipped away in the same way they arrived. One day the air became quiet. Now their shed skins and holes in the dirt are all that’s left to fill the space where their sound had been.
They are gone, just like the years that preceded them. Seventeen summers ago, I was twenty-eight with a toddling one-year-old. In seventeen more I will be sixty-two and probably a grandma. The silence tells me to pay attention to today, to its people and its work, and to love them both.
And you? Though moments of silence are rare, what does the quiet say to you?
Sharing today at Kelli’s Unforced Rhythms.