Sitting in the garden, reading. There's a breeze, hair dryer warm. The air sort of crackles. Things crack and jump with the heat. The traffic on the main road makes a whooshing sound. Bare metal burns. The principal colour is bright. The principal sound is the song of the cicadas. The air is alive with the sound. it's been like that for weeks
And then the Spanish neighbours came; with friends. Maybe for the weekend, maybe for the August fortnight and now the cicadas have competition. The difference is that the Spaniards never stop.