It's near the end of a cicada year, the leaves just starting on their twilight colors. Their chirruping grows the longer we dig, louder and louder. As if they're having themselves a powwow all around, talking none too soft. Wondering how come the six of us brought these shovels all the way out here. Instant interest given a group of men standing over two corpses in shrouds. Death a common thing to any, be it bug or man. We're all dripping sweat to spite the cool air. Trading digging bar for pickaxe for shovel and back again. Graves are tough to dig when you hit bedrock after eighteen inches. Scraping layers of shale. There's some crows too, hollering back and forth, keeping just in sight.