An
adult cicada lay dead at the end of the driveway, having no evidence of injury.
It is if it simply tired and lay down to die peacefully. I am surprised we
don’t see more of them as such, for their afternoon calls are strident, surely
requiring exhaustion to produce. We hear them now in earnest, beginning loudly
enough as a buzzing call, then rising in both volume and pitch, often being
joined in concert by a neighboring cicada. This lasts as long as a minute,
until abruptly the calls cease, leaving a stillness that gives the impression
that the insects are recharging.
This
adult was large, perhaps the size of my thumb, with a whitish underbelly and
dorsal surface that was a mottled green and brown. This camouflage explains so
well that we often hear them if ever see them perched on the trees.
Its
wings were striking, simply beautiful, folded backward to rest against its body,
with deep venous lines that divided the cellulose-looking material of the wing
proper. It reminded me of a stained glass window, absent of color yet no less
intricate, as if by some design.
Notes:
Indian
Pipe in bloom.
No comments:
Post a Comment