For my friend who left Oklahoma years ago, here is a familiar cicada song, courtesy Wikipedia.

These guys sing to me of summer. Their song heralds bare feet in hot grass, dry stream beds with puddles hiding wily crawfish, wild grapevine swings, resting on the grass with the Milky Way glowing faintly across the blackness overhead, lightning bugs along the tree line, and halo'ed sodium lights, cold lemonade in a thin walled wave-bedecked glass. This chorus is the song of bliss.