It’s supposed to be hot and sultry these days, but it seems as if the sky has taken to wearing too much sunscreen lately. It’s making for sluggish insectine culture. The paper wasps huddle on their nests, looking bored. The ants tiptoe along the asphalt, wary of incoming raindrop bombs. The damselflies flutter up half heartedly from the riverside brush, perhaps crestfallen that this summer so far has failed to show off their usual brilliant coppers and emeralds and cobalts. Even the tiger beetles, usually so intent on doing their 100 meter dashes along the baking, open stretches of earth, sit dejectedly beneath the grass stems, trying to look mean while trying to conserve calories.
Yet out there, since last night, there is one lone cricket that began singing. In the chilly air, his wing strokes lack the normal vigor of heat induced ardor, and so it is like listening to a beginner learning the violin. He plays for passion of course and if you sit and listen for a while you will notice the slow tango quality of his verses. But he is alone in the cold. Either the other musicians haven’t arrived yet, or they decided to jump ship with the few remaining lifeboats.
One brave cricket named Cassanova. Here’s a toast to languid summer heat and long, breathless nights under your grassy bower!