The way to know whether the hum was them wicked cicadas or even worse them overhead power lines was to wait, Momma said. If the hum died like a breeze passing, it was them critters in the trees. Otherwise a line was like to blow and soon, like near a sneaky dusk last summer when one a the thick ones snapped and landed smack on Rudy’s car top, charring the green paint black and hot like Devil’s hell must feel at night. When the sparks was spewing, Momma wouldn’t let Rudy go near the thing until the men in the white truck arrived and the sparks stopped spewing all crazy all around onto the dried mud and rock.