A loud, high pitched whirring sound becomes audible over the din of the engine…a strong, omnipotent whine that is actually louder than the engine of my Passat going 45 miles per hour.
It’s the cicadas, millions and millions of male cicadas, madly vibrating from trees, fence posts and telephone polls lusting for amorous attention from their lady counterparts.
The road bends and the sound recedes, indicating an exit from the whistling pocket of enchantment. We drive on and that sound, that crazy noise envelopes our car again, and eventually fades. Why cicadas choose one pocket of trees over another, I don’t know.
When we eventually pull into our driveway, I can’t resist scanning my vocabulary, trying to come up with a word, a phrase, an analogy that accurately describes what it’s like to experience this otherworldly noise.
June and I get out of the car to a deafening roar. The very air is under seige. A description comes to me.
Standing in the vortex of mating cicadas is like what you’d hear if you looked up and saw a giant, terrible alien spaceship hovering over your house preparing to take you home against your will: it’s spooky and terrifying.