Cousin to the cricket, the cicadas sing in late August in waves among the gingkos. Using their tymbals, they defy even the the most beautiful bluejay, heard, but unseen as of yet in an otherwise quiet, tree-lined street these past summer months. Steady chorus rising, then falling, from the underground they have come, to begin new life in their last few weeks of the season, truly an unprecedented one in New York City. Their chorus is the lovely and sure sign of summer, reminding me of childhood on the shores of Lake Michigan, professional life in the East, and emergence into a new Autumn at ...