11 May 2007
This morning Rob called me outside to look at my dollar store windsock, the one that is perhaps intended to be a grinning, swimming Esther Williams type, but more closely resembles a woman having a nervous breakdown. So on my bright nylon screamer's red streamer there was a teeny tiny cicada, perfect and newly emerged from its now-potato chip shell (which we didn't have the good fortune to spot). It was catching its buggy breath and waiting for the sun to rise high enough in the sky to warm its perch and help it prepare for flight. Aw! If only the Atlantic Ocean hadn't spoilt my camera, I would have snapped a shot of our little friend and posted it here. I mean, I've lived in Utah for how many years? 26 now? and this is the first cicada I can remember seeing. They were a big part of my North Carolina childhood, right up there with lightning bugs. I loved them. Funny to find a small one today, when my mind is a couple thousand miles from here, hanging around my old Southern home. Just for you (okay, more for me), I borrowed some cicada pictures from the abundant internet universe, in case you've never met even a small one.
Unlike this guy, our little pal was all black. Bodyguard or terrorist? You decide.