虫の音と四季Insect Sounds and the Four Seasons

This morning, for the first time in a while, a heavy rain fell early, and as a result, the long-lasting heatwave with no rainfall suddenly gave way to a cooler atmosphere, with temperatures settling in the low 30s Celsius, making it feel as though, for the first time this year, we had regained the true character of summer. In fact, upon stepping outside, I immediately noticed the sound of cicadas echoing all around—a sound that hadn’t been present during the daytime until just yesterday—making it clear that this temperature is the upper threshold for cicadas, and if it rises any further, they cease to sing altogether.

As I listened to the cicada chorus resonating across the area—something I hadn’t experienced at all this summer—it struck me that, for us, this sound might have become a precious seasonal memory that evokes the “summers we once knew.” It could even be described as a “lost summer,” as we now find ourselves in the year 2025, in a time vastly different from the past, where symbols of summer like cumulonimbus clouds, the sound of cicadas, fireworks, and summer festivals have all changed in tone or presence.

The Japanese regard the sound of cicadas as one of the quintessential features of summer. The onset of their chorus has long been considered a sign that summer has truly begun, and their songs have carried a certain beauty as a lingering echo of the season. In Japan, since ancient times, people have found seasonal emotion (趣) in the songs of insects and have developed a unique culture of appreciating them as something beautiful. This sensitivity is not limited to cicadas in summer; the appreciation of insect sounds heard on autumn nights as something beautiful and quietly savored is a sensibility rooted in the climate of this land, one that defies easy verbal explanation.

In Japan, the sounds of insects are deeply connected to the transition of the seasons and serve as a source of emotional resonance within the heart.

The culture of appreciating insect sounds is even reflected in Japan’s oldest poetry anthology, the Man’yoshu. For example, the poem “影草の生いたる野辺の夕陰に鳴く蟋蟀は聞けど飽かぬも” captures a person entranced by the chirping of crickets at dusk. Even back then, it seems people quietly stood still, listening to crickets sing. By the Heian period, the appreciation of insect sounds had become a fashionable pastime among the aristocracy, referred to as a form of furyu na asobi (refined play). The act of listening to insects and experiencing the emotions they inspired was treated as part of aristocratic cultivation and aesthetic refinement.

Indeed, in The Pillow Book by Sei Shonagon, there is a chapter titled “Insects,” in which she lists insects such as “bell crickets (suzumushi), evening cicadas (higurashi), butterflies, pine crickets (matsumushi), katydids (kirigirisu), and weaving insects (hataori)” as favorable examples. These are mostly insects that sing on autumn nights, and the sensibility she expresses still seems to resonate with contemporary Japanese people. A well-known modern example is Kegonji, a famous temple in Arashiyama, Kyoto, which is affectionately known as “Suzumushi-dera” (the Bell Cricket Temple) because bell crickets sing there year-round.

Back in the Heian era, nobles would find subtle charm in the insect sounds drifting into their garden through bamboo blinds, and these seasonal sounds were beautifully described in waka poetry and stories. In the Kamakura period’s Shin Kokin Wakashu, Fujiwara no Yoshitsune wrote: “きりぎりす 鳴くや霜夜のさむしろに 衣かたしき ひとりかも寝む”. This poem evokes a lonely scene of sleeping alone on a cold autumn night, accompanied by the voice of a katydid in the grass, with the insect’s song becoming a classic expression of seasonal melancholy. The sound of insects, particularly in autumn, has consistently served as a symbol of seasonal beauty and emotional depth for the Japanese.

By the Edo period, the development of renga and haikai poetry further elevated insect sounds to a central seasonal theme, sharpening the aesthetic sensibilities surrounding them. A tradition emerged in haiku that required the inclusion of a kigo (季語, seasonal word), and insect cries became established as a quintessential autumn kigo. In fact, studies show that 67% of haiku poems featuring the word “insect” refer to autumn, underscoring just how beloved the “sound of autumn insects” is in Japan. Personally, autumn is also my favorite season, so I agree with this sentiment—but that doesn’t mean summer lacks its own charm.

Poets of the Edo period such as Matsuo Basho (松尾芭蕉), Yosa Buson (与謝蕪村), and Kobayashi Issa (小林一茶) left behind many memorable verses using insect sounds as motifs. One of Basho’s most famous haiku, “閑さや岩にしみ入る蝉の声,” vividly depicts the sound of cicadas permeating a silent summer scene. From this, one finds the quietude and subtle aesthetic of wabi-sabi (侘寂) within the semi-shigure (蝉時雨)—a summer kigo referring to the chorus of many cicadas singing together, likened to sudden summer showers (formerly called shigure 時雨 in Japan).

This year, however, it’s hard to call what we’re hearing a true semi-shigure. Rather, the sound feels more like the strained cries of cicadas struggling to complete their short lives in extreme, life-threatening heat. In fact, July this year saw almost no rainfall, and reports indicate that agricultural damage has been devastating nationwide. Now, with rain finally falling across the country this morning, news outlets are showing farmers expressing some relief. Yet the rain isn’t gentle—it’s intense, with lightning strikes, tornadoes, and gusty winds being reported across various regions. Whether it rains or not, a constant state of unease seems to pervade.

In the past, people would have conducted Shinto rituals to honor deities who bring rain. But such customs have largely disappeared, revealing a troubling side of modern life, in which faith has drifted far from daily living. The deities once worshiped as bringers of rain were Ryujin (Dragon gods), introduced from ancient China around the Yayoi period, and over time, rituals like rainmaking ceremonies took root throughout the country.

Today, urban life has become the center of daily living. The sound of insects has become irritating noise, the scent of the seasons something to keep at a distance, and getting wet in the rain something to avoid at all cost. When the path to future economic growth is unclear, culture is the one thing that must never be lost. Yet the trend of letting go of even that culture has become increasingly apparent. Where, then, is this way of life headed?

As the semi-shigure rang out after the long-awaited rain, I found myself pondering such things on this quiet day.