For most of the year, chorus cicadas are invisible. They live as nymphs underground, sucking sap from tree roots in the dark. They grow slowly, moulting several times over two or three years. Their bodies are hidden from the sun and the birds. But when the soil warms up in December, something triggers them. They emerge in their millions. They climb the nearest trunk, split their skins, and reveal glossy, black-and-green adults with vibrant orange eyes. Within days, the males begin to sing. Their song is not a solitary chirp but a deafening, synchronised wall of sound. A chorus that can reach 100 decibels, loud enough to drown out human conversation. Each male has a pair of tymbals, ribbed membranes on the sides of his abdomen, which he vibrates at incredible speed. The sound resonates through hollow chambers in his body, amplifying the call until it carries for hundreds of metres. Life as an adult is short and frantic. Four to six weeks to mate, lay eggs, and die. They spend their days sunning themselves on tree trunks, their wings shimmering in the heat. At night, they join the endless, rhythmic drone that defines a Kiwi January. When you walk through a park and the sound suddenly stops as you approach, it is not because they have fled. They have simply paused, waiting for the predator (you) to pass before cranking the volume back up. Females are silent. They listen to the chorus, assessing the quality of each male by the intensity and rhythm of his call. Once mated, she slices into the bark of a small branch with her sharp ovipositor and deposits her eggs in a slit. When the eggs hatch, the tiny nymphs drop to the ground, burrow into the soil, and begin the long wait again. The cycle continues, unseen and unheard, until the next summer. Despite their noise, they are harmless. They do not bite, sting, or damage trees significantly. They are simply trying to make as much noise as possible in the brief window they have above ground. To a New Zealander, the silence of winter feels incomplete without their electric buzz. They are the auditory flag of the season, the living proof that the sun is high and the days are long.