The nearest cricket is making about 175 chirps per minute. If it were inside, it would be chirping even faster. The sticky air of the room is still, and barely a breath of the cooler outside air passes through the open window. Time to set up the fan. Nightfall has concealed the drooping leaves and the grass that is turning brown. The afternoon sky was unrelieved by any clouds other than those few thunderheads which cling to the distant ridges of the mountains this time of year. I listen for rumbling, but none has come. The population of flying insects has burgeoned. I don't dare turn on the porch light, lest I be swarmed. If I did hear rumbling, perhaps I couldn't be sure if it was thunder in the mountains or thousands of soft, beating wings. The characteristic balmy days of May numbered two or three. Before that, it was March. Now, it is August. I cannot bear another minute indoors.