Cicadas’ Flight


To Crawl

On a May evening in Maryland, cicadas were crawling along the curb. Their bodies were streamlined and brown, wings within. We’d been waiting to see this, anticipating, reading about their lives. We’d been thinking of cicada time. Seeing them, and their newfound walk, the concrete curb became strange. As they searched for places to molt, our minds cast back in time. Seventeen years ago, this building didn’t exist. What built-up, dug-down world had they come into? What trees and fields were here before, across the road from the creek? Tell me: do you remember it?



To Molt

At the park, just off the trail, cicadas are sitting quietly. Their discarded forms are also there. They are open and empty, but still holding on to tree bark and bushes and the bottoms of leaves. It’s hard work, I think, this process of becoming. When I look down, there are holes in the ground, rounded at the edges. I want to see one emerge from the ground, and again, from its own body. I want to do the same. How many transformations are required to move through the air? How many days underground, drinking from tree roots? How much exertion, and how much darkness? How long must you spend sitting still in the sun?



To Fall

On a clear day, we walked down to the dock to look for cicadas. One was flying out over open water, and it couldn’t stay aloft. We hoped for it as hard as we knew how. But its body was sinking, slowly. It was flying towards the trees, but it didn’t reach them. It fell into the water. It was there, beyond reach. For me—the cicada; for the cicada—the shore. Were your muscles too tired, as hard as you tried? Did your body feel weighted? Were you still new to flight? As we sat on the dock in the sun, we noticed a pulse in the air. The forest had come alive with cicadas’ song. It was behind us, beckoning, a mirage of sound. We walked in circles trying to find it.



To Walk

As soon as they emerge, cicadas are dying, already. On the sidewalks their bodies are crushed, their clear wings splayed. The humidity is thick, and I’m hit with a wave of unexpected grief. Death is everywhere surrounding. Back at the park, the cicadas are flying. Again and again, they go back and forth, between leafed-out branches of trees. Shorter distances seem better for them. No open water. One is walking across the path, its wings too crumpled for flight. I kneel and my mind jumps forward. The cicada stops and turns to face me. It crawls up on my shoe and stays. I unlace my shoe and carry it. We sit on a bench together, on a hill overlooking the water.



To Wait

By June, the air was quieter. Cicadas were lying on the path, their wings closed by their sides. I crouched before one, its eyes unseeing. What do you do when your life has left but still, your body remains? I went to see an oak by the water. For nearly a year, at its base, there were rounded holes, remnants of their emergence. Seasons passed; snow fell; leaves turned dry on the tree. Ten months later, those openings remained. By summer, mulch had mostly covered them. The tree’s trunk is leaning out, at an angle over the water. I hope the tree stays safe. I hope the coast holds firm. Cicada time is passing, down beneath my feet. Tell me: will we remember it?