The roaring sound of cicada tymbals has noticeably quieted. The next generation of periodical cicadas is young and silent. After hatching from eggs laid in trees, they will fall to the ground and tunnel into the earth, where they will live in darkness for years. These days it is the lightning bugs who are putting on a show.

All is quiet save for the birdsong through the window and the sounds of colored pencils making marks on the paper beneath my hand. It is this paper that has most of my attention. Light layers of pigment are laid down in their designated spots. An image forms.

A steady roar sounded in the woods. The tree canopy shimmered with traveling fixtures of light that bounced off transparent wings. I stood outside and took in the sights and sounds. Then I noticed someone on my shoulder.

World Migratory Bird Day was celebrated on May 11 this year. To take part in the celebration, I participated in Global Big Day, an event promoted by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, inviting everyone to spend any amount of time looking and listening for birds on that day.

Certain locations in Illinois are anticipating the springtime emergence of two periodical cicada broods. Brood XIII emerges once every 17 years, and Brood XIX emerges once every 13 years. This year they emerge together.

A position of considerable conflict was posed. The frog had to maintain a balance between calling attention to itself and blending in with its surroundings.

Crocuses made their debut at the tail end of winter. Snow fell on them in the early days of spring. Strict seasonal boundaries are hard to find, and that makes transitions from one season to the next entertaining or, at times, even bewildering.

Not having any art to work on is rare, but sometimes projects line up in such a way that there are spots in the timeline where there is nothing in the works at all. That has occurred recently.

Clumps of crescent-shaped seed pods embellished a dried plant that stood a few feet tall. The plant lined an open trail and called for a closer examination.

A merlin preened on a branch of a skeletal tree, contorting its body into all sorts of interesting positions as it tidied and fluffed its feathers with its beak and talons. Far away, in the distant overcast sky, the chatter of two crows sounded. Two black spots flew into view. And they saw the merlin.