In which I studiously avoid considering what the point of this blog is, or may be, having never done this before.
Quiet, sultry, early August-Sunday evening in Upper New Jersey, under big trees. And if that string of words doesn’t start the virtual background music of cicada, cricket, katydid marking time, I don’t know what would.
One of these beauties was sitting vertically on the screen of the kitchen door the other day. Ah, what it is to have tiny stickery feet, and not weigh much, and sing passionately katydidkatydidn’tyesshedidnoshedidn’t….