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That summer crawled with them, insects of every denomination: cicadas caught by the cat, wingless, came to rest in the roots of the garden we planted; sudden swarms of dragonflies...
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"You two have to kiss now!"
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Seventeen-year cicadas are the sometimes-singers that surprise spring with the ugliest mouths of all.
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Shiva and Zeus convene a focus group.
“It wouldn’t work,” the panel votes. “Those leaf eaters would strip the trees and crops if we let them come back every year.”
“That’s true,” Jehovah reasons. “Remember that plague of locusts I sent down?”
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