EXCERPT Some sounds I miss. I miss the sounds of dog-day cicadas, that bug that waits for elongated days to play its tune. Growing up in Toronto, even when going for a walk downtown, their sound would somehow reliably return each Summer. I always assumed the electric swell was just the sound of Summer, the sound the Summer made. I had never seen where it came from, but knew it would always be there to be heard. Living now in Europe, I no longer hear them. The season lost its familiar buzz. I want to drift through sounds past, sounds missed, sounds written, so as to listen past our present surround and let sounds of elsewhen leak.…