As the wax was drying on my car waiting for a buff, and Willy Nelson was singing "Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain" in the garage, I said hello to a large flying insect that has habitually shared my outdoor space this summer. I had been watching its large sausage-shaped winged body, perhaps the body of a cicada, burrow its way into the ground for several days. I first noticed this guy because he (for the sake of pronoun ease) was disturbing the soil on the lawn. When I bent down to investigate what I thought was an up and coming ant colony, I discovered a mysterious mini tunnel.
Throughout the afternoon, I watched my winged neighbor come and go and wondered what was happening deep underground. Feeling a bit protective of his life and work, I arranged the soil carefully around the outside of the sanctuary so that other humans wouldn't be alerted to his presence. If it is a cicada, I thanked him for spending time with me because I have only ever crunched their abandoned exoskeletons underfoot or noticed their eerie armor clinging to trees.
I do my infinitesimal part in suburbia to protect the daily comings and goings of my winged mystery because suburban peer pressure being what it is- no dandelions, moles, wasps, mice, possums, or thistles allowed- leaves no room for showing compassion toward other living creatures and plants.
When will we learn that the birds and the bees- and the flowers and the trees- are not our enemies?
No comments:
Post a Comment