Cicadas (annual and otherwise) spend the bulk of their lives underground: we don’t see them. We don’t think of them; when they emerge, however, singly or en-masse, we take notice. Some—thankfully, not all of us—screech, cringe, and pray for protection from some bearded god in a purple robe. A few of us, however, know of the hidden, subterranean lives of cicadas. A few of us probably harbor childhood memories of digging for cicada nymphs, or feeling a sense of disappointment in the midst of a healthy garden. Infant cicadas are root-eaters and a healthy garden (and a large squirrel population) indicates the absence of baby cicadas. Cicadas (annual and otherwise) spend the bulk of their adult lives hidden from human view. It’s not that they’re so great at hiding so much as many people knew nothing of them. We hear them, but we don’t know what to look for. When we see them, we don’t associate them with the buzzing, stridulant sounds that mark the late months of summer. Unlike cicada nymphs, the adults do not eat; their only purpose in life is to reproduce. Adult cicadas live for only a few (very loud) days. Like most insects, cicadas are masters of metamorphosis. Their young are bulbous, intimidating things with enormous pincer-claws. Adults are winged, mouthless beings, as green as the foliage in which they live, through their bellies are often white with hair recalling the fuzz of peaches. The metamorphosis from infant to adult resembles something of a slow strip-tease. The infant emerges, clings to a vertical surface, unzips its old skin, climbs out, and unfurls its fresh, wet wings. The newly emerged adults must allow their wings to dry and harden (preferably in sunlight); on occasion, however, an emerged cicada might find himself (or herself) in cramped quarters. This is seen in the wings. Cicadas need space for their wings, and if such space is not available, the wings will harden in less-than-ideal ways. I have seen many cicadas with permanently crinkled, useless wings. Such members of the species are no less able to mate and reproduce, but they are unable to fly. Such members of the species are often the first to be eaten by birds, cats, and the impressive and terrifying cicada-wasp. On a walk home from work, two years ago, I saw a crinkle-winged cicada, patiently climbing a tree. I snapped a few photos (one of which you’ve, presumably, just seen) and moved the model in question higher up its particular tree. I don’t know if it reproduced or not. I do know that it is—by now—dead. I’d planned on posting this a lot earlier than now. Because it’s drab and wintery, I felt that it’s high-time to at least imply the presence of warmth, and there’s no better way to do that than to show a nice, healthy (flightless) insect. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great weekend.