I call them locusts.  My hubby calls them cicadas. Whatever you call them, they're everywhere.

Their sound is the sound of late August in Northeast Ohio. From the crack of dawn till late into the night, you can hear their shrill peculiar songs. 

This week I've found their sloughed-off casings all over the place.  In the crook of the back step. On the corner of the garage. Even clinging to the back porch swing.  

Darn things are creepy, but at the same time their songs give me comfort. And bring back happy memories of Augusts gone by.