Musings of a Drunken Monk: Individual Entry Archive

Yesterday on my way home I heard for the first time this year the call of a Cicada. This morning I can hear perhaps the same one chirping from somewhere in the trees near the school.

I love that sound. If there were two things I had to give as my strongest memories of my first months in Japan, one would be the call of the Cicadas. For me at least, that sound defines my Japanese experience.

I still remember every day in early August sweltering in my apartment, surrounded by the smell of tatami and the steady squeal of those creepy but lovable bugs. The sound brings me back.