Harry asks me, "what's that? . . . what's that sound?"
"What did you say?" I ask him. "What's that sound?"
"What you say?" Harry repeats. "That. chicka, chicka?" He stands on the back porch and his body, much more expressive than his speech, wriggles with interest. He says it again as a question, "chicka, chicka? What's that you say?"
And than I hear it. Locusts? I have no idea. A sound like the ocean, so constant you wouldn't stop to wonder. The obvious backdrop to all this misty green.