There was a shell from a hatched 17-year locust hanging onto a small branch laying in the lawn yesterday. Today, the shell is on the ground, knocked there by a bit of breeze or, perhaps, an investigating bird. This isn’t the year for 17-year locusts and that’s the only shell I’ve seen. It seems a few hatch out-of-turn every year. If no others are around, the poor bug will have a lonesome time the few weeks that it lives. It reminds me of the mournful calls of the last bob-white I ever heard, trying vainly to find a friend.
I’ve spent my life outside looking in, never part of any circle of real friends, though I have a few individuals I’d call friends. Like the poor locust, some of us are doomed to be loners. Some of us get to prefer it that way, though, once we discover the flakiness of most people. Not everyone is strong enough to handle it though, and spend their lives trying to fit in, and usually trying too hard, which nearly always guarantees failure. I’ve been there and done that, but those days are past.
I hear the cicadas beginning to sing these days proclaiming summer, but really being the harbingers of autumn. I’m curious to know if that one lone cicada (locust) will sing his song or keep his mouth shut. Then again, maybe something has already eaten him. Life can be that way. Copyright 2018