Along the trail near the
picnic grove, a strange insect, very large, the color of old bark, perched atop
a grass stem. Its wings are twice as long as its body, more than enough to
carry that broad head and far-flung eyes. What on earth can it be? Next day,
painting the picnic table, we paint around the leg where someone similar but
bright green is stuck to a partial case made of paper and spider silk.
My son sees the news.
“That cicada is so late.
He should be dead now.”
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