And the amazing thing wasn't the noise -- the traffic, an energetic Aboite Autobahn in the early evening, had thinned and slowed, an occasional tired whoosh of somebody going home. The cicadas, though -- they were screaming, screaming their excitement at being above ground, screaming for the mate they search for, screaming against the end that awaits them all.
The amazing thing wasn't even the color of the sky, bittersweet pink and pale orange, turquoise deepening to navy, backlit by the tired sun that had already set behind the ridge down by Homestead Road.
No. The amazing thing was the air -- for the first time in forever, the humidity had lifted, the temperatures dropped. I wasn't sludging through a steambath, but walking cleanly towards the light, the breeze soft and cool against my face.
Air smooth as the colors, lively as the locusts, welcome as the night.