Birds chirp, lawnmowers hum, and kids shout as they play. They are typical sounds of summer.
The screech of cicadas is past.
We live in an area where Brood X (that X is a Roman numeral, not a letter of the alphabet) appears every seventeen years. Some residents hate them, while others are fascinated by them. Some people eat them, as do dogs and birds. Every child and adolescent who sees them is meeting them for the first time.
Imagine a species that pupates underground waiting for that seventeenth year to arrive. Little mud “chimneys” appear to signal they have climbed their way into the daylight. After they emerge (in May in our area), they free themselves from their outer shells (which litter the ground by the thousands).
Their job every seventeen years is to feed, mate, lay eggs, and die, leaving their young to begin the cycle again. They feed in the newest, outermost tree branches, which die and also litter the ground. This doesn’t harm mature trees, only prunes them a bit, but can prove harmful to young saplings. Because they feed in trees, the places they dig in for the next round are under those trees. Our yard has several mature oaks and maples, so we knew we’d see a multitude this year.
Why the screech?
Those who hate them are irritated by their numbers—millions of them. They fly in your face, land in your hair, and screech! The screech is their mating call, but when you multiply it by their massive numbers, it’s deafening. Experts say they can be as loud as a jet engine.
They get quiet when the sun goes down or when it rains, and it rained a lot here this June.
Now it is July, and their time has ended. The only remnants of their presence are a few dead ones on the ground. I’m told they are good for the soil.
While I did find their screech annoying, I must admit I am a bit saddened to know these fascinating creatures won’t return until 2038. How much will the world change by then?
