Periodical cicada Brood XIV has just about concluded its above-ground affairs in my neck of the woods. Most of the adults who emerged over the last several weeks have fulfilled their multi-fold purpose, and their small, lifeless bodies are everywhere. The grass and sidewalk glitter with crystalline wings, as if an army of molting fairies has passed through.
For me, the cicadas have been rather like fairies: mysterious and magical, strange and beautiful, deeply connected with the natural world but wholly unconcerned with the human world. They appear at regular and oddly spaced intervals, conduct their business without regard for anything else, and then disappear.
After weeks of deafening song, the neighborhood is strangely quiet. Already I miss them: the friendly chirr and click of individuals; the power of the full chorus, waves of sound rippling through a wall of vibration that is almost unbearable. It reminded me of the visions of Old Testament prophets, where winged beings fly through the heavens in dizzying numbers and cause the foundations to shake with their unceasing voices.
With the help of audio files on the University of Connecticut’s excellent information pages, I’ve determined that ours were/are (and will be when they again emerge) Magicicada cassini. You can hear what they sound like here: https://cicadas.uconn.edu/species/m_cassini/.
I have a final sweet cicada story to share. Yesterday I was in another part of town where the cicadapalooza is waning but not altogether finished. Before leaving, I stood in the shade of some trees to enjoy the chorus for several minutes. As I opened the car door and started to get in, a loud chirring sound, quite close, made me pause and look at my reflection in the car window. A cicada had landed on my shoulder. After saying hello, I offered a finger for it to climb onto; it obliged, and I transferred it to a nearby tree branch and took my leave.
Once in the car and up on the highway, I glanced down and saw another cicada on my sleeve. I said hello and asked it not to do anything crazy, or we’d both be in a pickle. It calmly walked up my arm and perched on my hand, looking out the windshield as I drove along. I used the first exit and found a gas station next to a wooded area. I got out of the car and left my would-be copilot on the branch of a tree, bidding it a fond farewell.
Lastly, I tried to capture something of my cicada experience in another poem:
Winding down
still they sing
on the sidewalk, in the grass
as they lie dying
cadence of whirs and clicks
ever slower
tiny, intricate, clockwork
musicians
(an earlier version of this appeared on the LexPoMo web site: https://lexpomo.com/poem/winding-down/)
The Daily Compost 
