We got our sun back this afternoon, following a hail storm last night. I opted for bike ride to the cemetery and a long walk. Azaleas, flowering dogwood, and redbud in full bloom. Someone had stuck several roses in a grave and left some birthday balloons tied to the headstone.

The day was nonstop again, workwise—meeting after meeting and a two-hour training. I started blocking off time just to stop people from booking me. I know this is a well-used technique, but I’ve always felt guilty doing that. Not anymore. Except that now when people say, “I can’t find any open time on your calendar,” I relent and suggest a time slot they can book. I suspect this might defeat the purpose.

We’re preparing for the emergence of Brood X cicadas, which make their appearance every 17 years. They’re collective noise is like listening to a thousand car alarms. Magnified by a million. I remember when they emerged 17 years ago. I was working in downtown D.C. and had to step around them on the sidewalk when I walked to and from the bus stop and the Metro station. Outdoor weddings were ruined, the zoo animals gorged themselves to the point of getting sick, and some people collected them to eat as a delicacy. Yes, I’m serious. Since the last time Brood X made their appearance, we moved to an older neighborhood with big trees. I fear this means we’ll be rained on by cicadas and tormented by their noise for about a month. We have the yearly cicadas, which sing loudly, but it’s a tolerable noise—and they aren’t the size of mice, like Brood X.