The year of the locust

Okay, they are not locusts.  They are cicadas.  Seventeen-year cicadas, to be precise.  They are harmless.  They are beautiful, especially their wings and red eyes.  And they are loud.  When they first began emerging from their long, seventeen-year larva-hood underground, I smiled as I drove along the roads, hearing their mating song.  After thinking hard about it, I’ve decided they sound like rain sticks, those long, gourd-like instruments that sound like rain when inverted, which made me smile.  I smiled at all the Facebook comments.  I smiled at the people who found them disgusting and I smiled at the ones who were just little bit creeped out by them.

But now they’ve found my house.

They are singing in my trees.  They are pooping on my sidewalk.  They are dying and leaving body parts on my porch. They are landing on my neck. I’m finding it harder to smile about them.

My mother used to say that house guests should leave before the hosts want them to.  Leave while they are still welcome.

I know why God, in His wisdom, told these house guests they were only welcome every seventeen years.


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