Without a word of a lie, when I bicycled out of the garage this morning into the open air, the first thing I heard was the shrill whine of a cicada. It was then I knew that August was upon us. Say what you will about June and July, when it comes to the identity of summer it is for me the month of August and the sound of the cicada. The mounting emerald corn fields on either side of the Appleton Side Road yesterday created the illusion of a shady canyon to the Village. The flowers about the condominium are at their peak. The honey bees are like drunken waifs.

Enduring this pandemic is oddly like having to live in a castle without an automobile.  We’re forcibly secluded and have nowhere to go. It has not surprisingly revitalized the drama of that magic feeling – nothing to do, nowhere to go.