Odd sort of noon this; weary, humid and flushed with greens. Deafening nature noises streaming through an almost invisible wire mesh; summer cicada's these, they sing in a chorus of deafening jangle, like strings of thin chains caught in cyclonic rattle. It ebbs and flows, while the whole day goes into a cryptic nighttime shroud, and still relentless cicada's they never pause with their babel song.
The leaves are at a standstill, motionless in attention; not a trickle of air that'd help the greens rustle.
If there ever were a dry rain, this would be it, for it isn't raining, yet everything feels wet still.
Nature's screen saver, this becalmed landscape, subtitled with insect symphony. If time came to a stand still, this imagery would suffice as its advertisement.
At lethargic pace this day would dawdle, noon to afternoon.
