Chatfield, Minnesota, 08/20/1982
It’s about an hour before sunset, on a hot and humid August evening. An orange sun slowly descends towards the pale smoke blue hills on the west side of the valley. The abandoned rope swing hangs limply in the heavy evening air.
Cicadas are finishing their late afternoon songs. Like a twice baked Lazarus they have emerged from two tombs: from their 17 year sleep in the earth and then again from their pupa shells.
Up in the trees, they look down with large dark eyes and signal that summer is rapidly coming to an end. It is a melancholy sound.