BZZZZ-Z-Z-Z! BZZZZ-Z-Z-Z! The verdant path through the neighborhood forest now rings with the call of just one. One lonely sycophant still searching for its mate.
Weeks earlier the tropical canopy was a deafening riot of screaming cicadas, each trying to out-maneuver the next. Imagine your lifetime of sexual energy condensed to one 30-day period. The maniacal buzzing and whirring went non-stop 24/7, so loud and frantic it was comical.
For 17 long years these nymphs sucked sap deep underground from the tall trees’ roots. Finally mature, they’ve come out and shed their skin for their summer prom, engagement, honeymoon and funeral all in just a few short weeks.
My evening walk’s now mostly calm, save this last cicada. Why, pray tell, is he still unmated? Pimples? Shy? Two left feet? Too picky? Off key?
Are the females all gone that his wails go in vain?
Or maybe he don’t give a damn, he just wants to be the last man standin’.
The toughest dude in the brood.
The last cicada.
Richard Dawahare
(originally published September, 2005)
