Death of a Dog-Day Cicada
Yesterday was a day of tragedy at the Clune house. We laid to rest a roll of Charmin, a bag of egg noodles (the cats now open cupboards), and said good-bye to this curious creature who expired at our front door.
I had no idea what this was at first, but I found myself captivated by its beautiful markings, the lacy transparency of its wings and its largess. It appeared to be dead, but closer inspection revealed the slow kick of a single rear appendage. I watched as those beautiful wings fluttered, narry a movement as much as a slight vibration. The final death rattle.
My thoughts returned to this being many times throughout the day. I photographed it to preserve, in my memory, the curious life that once was. Here I sit at 5 a.m. writing about the experience without knowing why.
Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down
Kringle found me when he was just 3 months old. He came in one frigid night in December 1984 while I brought in an armload of wood. He laid in front of the Christmas Tree undetected for some time only to be discovered like a present from Santa. Too cold and dark to find his home that night, we curled into the chair by the fire and napped on and off. The next day, I canvassed several blocks for his owner but to no avail. Al, my closest neighbor, said the little guy had been living under his porch for a week but he had no idea where the kitten had come from.
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