Blaring Whiners—Part 2

Having been treated to the phenomenon of the periodic cicadas, we became more aware of our so-called annual cicada—for which a far smaller number emerge each year, starting in early July. These critters stay underground sucking on tree roots for only 2-5 years. Every summer a portion of them surface, live for about a month, mate, and die. The female digs holes in the bark of twigs (with her ovipositor) and deposits eggs. Nymphs hatch from the eggs, fall to the ground, and tunnel downwards—waiting patiently for a few years (not 17!), before coming up again.

When it’s time for their coming out party, the nymph peeks out at night (probably can’t take the bright sun after so long in the dark), crawls up a tree, and latches on with its spiky feet. Its shell (exoskeleton) splits open down the back and the adult cicada slowly squeezes out over the next couple of hours. We were treated to this amazing display a few days ago (see accompanying photos). Like watching the minute hand on a clock—you can’t really see it moving, but do notice a change in position over several minutes—the adult slowly extruded itself from the nymph’s shell. The most amazing thing was watching its wings unfold from tiny green nubbins to long, graceful, diaphanous appendages.

When the adult first squeezes out, it is soft and pale. Every so often its body gently shudders or its wings slightly twitch, but otherwise it’s motionless. I kept wondering if it was able to register the presence of these two monstrous beings peering fixatedly down at it and exclaiming, “Oh, look at that!” As it began to dry out, it darkened and its new exoskeleton began to harden. As we watched the insect slowly expand, we marveled at how it once was able to fit inside that cramped shell. It was kind of like the crowd of clowns I once saw emerge from the circus’s tiny Volkswagen.

Over the next few weeks the males will blare out with that penetrating, whining song. They tend to stay hidden in the trees, so we seldom see them. That’s why, as a child, I was easily fooled into thinking that it was vibrating wires making the racket. (Well, maybe I was a little gullible.) Their call is a high-pitched and rapidly pulsating song that begins softly but builds to an irritating whine that lasts for a minute or so. Often several males will join in a synchronous chorus and you can hear their swelling sound waft through the forest like a slow-moving breeze. On the hottest days their song is continuous, all the bloody day long, as if they were complaining about the heat.

Cicadas, although they appear menacing, are harmless if picked up. They can’t bite or sting. They possess a feeding tube that they poke into a tree branch and suck up some moisture (hence they are more related to aphids than leaf-chewing crickets and katydids).

If the male’s singing is successful, he’ll mate, the lady will lay her eggs, the tiny babies will drop to the ground, burrow down to a nutritious tree root, and begin counting the days to freedom again—either 730, 1095, 1460, or 1725 days (2, 3, 4, or 5 years). Amazing little mathematicians! At least they don’t have to count off 6205 days, like the periodical cicadas do! I think hidden within that tymbal must be a tiny abacus, with which they keep count.