You listened to Neil Diamond crooning hot August night, and the leaves hanging down, and the grass on the ground smelling sweet, and wondered, did he know about hot August nights in Memphis? Did Neil Diamond know about the heat that still radiated up from the ground long after sunset, in the darkness, with dew already coming on the grass? The heat betrayed an earthy smell, the smell of loamy humus worked by human hands. Did Neil Diamond know that smell? The concertmaster had drawn his bow across the string, the oboe’s A-note fallen silent, and now the symphony resonated all around you as you lay on your back contemplating the night sky: a joyous chorus of crickets, the same ones who congregated just inside the back door and kept you up some nights. And what was this loud song, now insinuating itself above the chorus? Oh, cicada! Primordial insect who strips naked, leaving your clothing clinging to trees for young fingers to pluck off and examine! Now yours is a song! Did Neil Diamond know anything at all about cicadas, you wondered?