they're back

It is that time of year again.

The cicadas have started emerging from their underground root buffet and are making their final moult into adulthood. That means that the evenings will soon be filled with the sound of lovelorn males hoping to play house for an evening or two.

I found this guy (or gal, insects being next to impossible to sex) in my patio. He was on his own. At least at my house. When cicada season arrives, the stalks of my heliconia are usually studded with the discarded exoskeletons of cicada going through the metamorphosis that would qualify them to be the center of a quinceañera -- or any other debutante ball.

But one cicada does not a summer make. Nor does one cicada more cicadas make.

I found only one discarded husk on the heliconia stems. I suspect it once belonged to the cicada in the patio. The husk contains the remnants of the right front leg that looks as if it had been ripped off in the transformation.

So, the cicada is not only too early for the opening of the insect singles bar, he is destined to be nicknamed El Tunco. Not a propitious start to spreading his DNA.

I have been in the eastern United States when the 13- and 17-year cicadas emerge. Their love songs can be almost deafening.

That is not true of the Mexican cicadas. At least, in this area. Their hum is exactly what you would associate with warm, humid nights in the tropics. Combined with the persistent crook of the peepers, our evenings can be the stuff of nostalgic tales.

But, for that to happen, the lone hummer in my patio will require company. And, if we are patient, they will will arrive. Actually, they will arrive even if we are not patient. The insect world is oblivious to our human doings. I suspect most of them will want to be out of the ground before our rains start in a few weeks. 

Most of you have heard the following story before, but I find it difficult to write about cicadas without repeating it. When I was in Colombia with my Colombian cousin Patty, she told me one of the most fascinating cicada tales. Colombians believe that the cicadas are crickets who sing with joy, and when they cannot stand the pleasure anymore, they explode.

Now, those of us who have been handicapped by looking at everything in life through the constraints of the scientific method may scoff at that tale as being mere superstition, as if truth is based on facts. And that is a pity.

The poetry of the tale of the cricket that explodes with joy is far more interesting in capturing the manner in which people who enjoy life think about their surroundings. Given the choice between joy and the husk of a corpse, I will take the poetry of joy -- almost every day.

So far, I have heard no song from that alien-eyed cicada in my patio. Maybe he knows it is too early to start his aria. Or he may have flown off to find another early-emerging cicada. He can then sing until he explodes with joy.

May we all be so lucky.