On the Turn of Locusts, a Passage — by Alex Ranieri

The tips of the locusts are burnt with yellowing leaves—these same leaves they put out in a havoc when the warm evenings seemed eternal. At first I supposed these to be more new growth, so similar are the shades of yellow to the shades of young green; more similar to each other, than to the dark green of sturdy middle age. But no; the new growth has become superfluous, and is the first to be shed. Yet the weather has not shifted—we are enduring a set of days as hot as any in July. How do the trees know this is a mirage? Or perhaps they are simply tired and want to sleep; and they would shed their leaves all the same, if we were to exchange the next three seasons for a chain of summers.