One morning, they were suddenly here. Cicadas lay strewn across our lawn, the driveway, and the sidewalk. They lined the tree trunks in a frozen parade, some leaving their empty shell to keep their place as they flew off to higher heights.
We knew they were coming, but it didnât make it any less jarring to see the tiny holes in the soil where they had suddenly emerged after their 17-year-long buffet of tender tree roots. Theyâre not a welcome sight for many, and cautious homeowners along neighborhood streets have carefully wrapped young saplings in white nets as a way of protecting trees in their infancy from the attack of cicadas.
I have enjoyed the ways these tiny insects have insinuated themselves into our lives, making children, adults, and pets alike take notice. My dog can catch a cicada in his mouth mid-air, his jaw snapping. He looks over his shoulder at me as if to say, âDid you see that?â as he proudly chews probably the 100th cicada of the day. They are a delectable treat to him, and I worry heâll make himself sick, but he approaches them the way I approach a giant bag of Peanut M&Mâs: just one more wonât hurt.
From my front porch, I watched with amusement as the little boy who lives across the street refused to get out of the car when he saw the sidewalk covered in cicadas. His grandma sweet-talked, reasoned, and finally begged the boy to get out of the car. The evening light was fading, and it was a school night. Finally, huffing in exasperation, she disappeared into the house to grab a broom, then swept the sidewalk clean so the boy could gingerly hop down from the back seat and walk ever so carefully from the car to the front door without having to come into contact with any of the beady-eyed insects.
Last week, women in colorful sundresses, high heels and open-toed sandals walked past my porch on their way to a graduation, and their shrieks pierced the air as cicadas collided with their skirts. Even though I knew they were lifting their legs high to avoid the awful squish of stepping on a cicada, it appeared to be a ceremonial dance they were performing, heads swiveling up to the cicadas in the skies, then down again for the cicadas on the ground. The women gathered up their floral-patterned skirts to carefully calculate where they placed their feet, doing a tip-toe dance of sorts that slowly propelled them closer and closer to their destination.
So far, the cicadas are too busy doing the work of emerging from the ground and shedding their shells, but I will wait patiently for their lovely song, the strange warbling anthem that blankets the nighttime air in late summer. It is their mating song, and it is a sound that will always remind me that summer is nearing its end, a reminder to celebrate each warm summer evening and treat each one like it could be the last.
Cicadas live in darkness for 17 years, only to break through to the sunlight for a glorious 3-6 weeks (except for the poor cicada souls who met their early demise by flying into the jaws of my hungry dog). Who wouldnât want to sing after an epic entrance like that? They are the Broadway stars of the insect world, like the elusive actress who suddenly appears on stage after she was thought to be long ago retired. The lights go down, the spotlight is on her, and the crowd rises to their feet in confusion and awe. She takes center stage before she belts out her finale, surrounded by a brood of a trillion adoring chorus singers.
