04 10 00

leaves and cicadas

Despite the snow we've had (over three inches in the past three days) and the frigid temperatures, spring is still trying to happen. It's always a little depressing, though, to see daffodils and crocuses and forsythia bushes flowering but covered in snow.

Sometimes I think of this time of year as the "little autumn." Leaves change color in the autumn because the chlorophyll dies, revealing the actual pigment in the leaves - red and orange and yellow. Well, in the spring before the chlorophyll gets a chance to get moving, the tiny little buds on the trees are red and orange and yellow.

For a very few days each spring, the trees are alive in their autumn colors. From a distance you can't see the individual leaf buds, so the bare branches look like they've sprouted some sort of colorful mold. And then you wake up one morning and the colors are gone, replaced by that light, new green color of new leaves.

It's always amazed me how the leaves can sprout (seemingly) overnight. I don't know how many times I've looked up and suddenly noticed that there were leaves on the trees. When did that happen? For days afterward, I'm appalled that I didn't notice the leaves were coming out.

Of course, I do notice the "moldy branch" look. I think I get used to that, and I stop seeing any changes in the trees. Until the leaves fully come out, that is.

So, I've noticed that the trees have taken on their faux fall colors. And when I did, I realized that this will be the last summer that I'll be spending in Ohio.

It was a little jarring, let me tell you.

Hopefully I'll get the chance to squeeze as much summer out of this summer as I can. I'll visit the amusement park once (or twice or five times or twenty). The county fairs... Can't miss those. I need to hike the trails and bike the paths as much as I can. I'll be missing the city's annual festival, but that can't be helped - I'll be at Anthrocon at the time. One thing I must do is take a few weekends just for kite flying; which reminds me, I need to get a new center spar for my 6' delta. Also, time must be taken to catch lightening bugs and to watch summer storms roll in and to eat elephant ears and to fall asleep to the bullfrogs and to listen to the cicadas. (The deafening roar of the 17-year cicadas occurred last summer, so I'll just have to live with hearing the regular cicadas.)

Granted, there will be other summer things to do in Canada, ones that I don't have memorized down to the last detail. But that familiarity I get from my summer routines is very comforting.

When the last of the cicadas fall silent, summer is declared over. Hearing the cicadas has always brought a little feeling of regret into my heart, since I know there was something I missed or forgot to do that summer. The cicadas sing summer's swan song. This year... When I hear my first cicada, I'll probably start crying.

As much as I'm dreading hearing those rhythmic buzzings, I can't wait to move to Canada. I think it's the waiting that will eventually get to me. I want to move up there now, I want to see him immediately, I need to hug him ASAP. Is it better that I'm given the chance to say goodbye to everything that's been a part of my life forever? Or would a clean break be better, like ripping off a bandage?

I don't know.

I do know that I'm more aware of what's going on around me, now. This year, I noticed that the leaves are budding. Some trees already have tiny little leaves happening. Knowing that this is my last summer here has heightened my senses. That first lightening bug will be mine. I heard the spring peepers and saw the first robin before anyone else. I'll probably be the first to see a changing leaf, the first to spot a wollybear...

...and the first to hear the cicadas.

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