A summer evening paints the sky in tender shades of twilight. Here, cicadas weave their intricate song, a dialogue carved in the air. Their rhythm, a natural heartbeat, echoes the heart of the earth itself. It's a simple chant, yet profound in its continuity.
Many wonder why these tiny creatures sing. Yet, to them, it is a natural obligation, a routine as comforting as the dawn and dusk it accompanies. The cicadas do not sing for our ears, but their song becomes forever intertwined with the memory of this gentle evening.
Beneath the layers of their voice, the world is silent. Not the absence of sound, but a tangible presence of peace. The kind of silence that speaks volumes, whispering stories of past summers, of lives lived just beyond the periphery of our understanding.
Like a fabric woven with threads of time, silence and cicadas craft a tapestry that is both fleeting and eternal. Each note a stitch, each pause a breath in this dance of existence, reminding us that life hums on in the quietest of moments.