Robbed by the bulldozer

I live in an area now experiencing the emergence of Brood II of the mid-Atlantic's famed 17 year cicadas.

Or, to be more accurate, I live in an area that should be experiencing Brood II's emergence.

I hear them in the forest behind the school where I park my bus. I hear them in what's left of the forest near the local elementary school. I suspect I'll hear them if I go hiking this weekend. But I'm not hearing them where I live.

Why not? That's a good question, but I'll be it has a lot to do with the fact that this community (if I dare use that term) didn't exist in 1996, when they last emerged. This area was mostly farm and forest back then, but nearly all the farms are gone, and only vestiges of the forests remain. All else has been churned up by bulldozers, transformed into a landscape of cookie-cutter townhouses interspersed with variations on the McMansion theme.

Did the bulldozers wreak so much havoc that they annihilated Brood II? That's my guess.

Sad. I miss the beady-eyed little critters. Along with their incessant song. And the farms and fields that have disappeared, too.

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Update: A wayward cicada flew into an open window on my bus and landed near a first grader. She wavered between disgust and fascination, so I leaned overand asked her age. "Six." I mentioned that the next time she saw one, she'd be 23. She looked puzzled, as though the very idea of ever being that old was utterly incomprehensible. To me, that's fundamental to the sense of wonder these insects engender; they stretch our sense of time beyond the constraints of the ordinary.

Update: The photo above replaces the "borrowed" original; this one was shot in the forest remnant bordering the lot where I park my bus.