Some humor this afternoon, courtesy of The New Yorker:
You put the “ten” in antennae—Central Park
Saw you yesterday by the Promenade, perched on a statue. Not sure which one because humans all look the same, LOL. We locked multi-lensed compound eyes for a minute through a roiling swarm of our brood-mates, and I couldn’t be sure, but I think you were smiling at me? Unless it was at one of the other millions of cicadas behind, above, below, and swarming around me.
I don’t mean to be shallow, but your dorsal thorax looks amazing. If you see this before our life cycle comes to its imminent end, want to meet up by the fountain and lap up some melted rocket-pop syrup from the sidewalk, then listen to my calling song followed by my courting song, head off to the nearest branch to fulfill our biological imperative to spawn hundreds of larvae in tree slits, and then get brunch?
I was the cicada with wings, noise-making tymbals, and a mischievous smile. To prove you’re who I’m posting about, tell me what you were molting.
Long shot, but you had a body that was cic—Tompkins Square Park
Saw you seventeen years ago on a stoplight at Fourteenth and Third Ave. You were buzzing at me, but I didn’t click back, because I was already involved in something (ended up only lasting a few weeks). I realize it’s kind of crazy that I’d be posting this after so long, especially since the average lifespan of a cicada is just over a month, but hey, YOMO. You only metamorphose once.