In our earliest days we packed the Jeep full of camping gear,children, our music. I can’t think of who was driving the day we were blindsided by those pale Seventeen Year locusts. Seventeen years underground and then flying through our wilderness like they knew the place better than we did. One of us, or both of us turned the music off so we could hear death coming to life. Their cry was so desperate that the children became quiet and we stopped the car in the road.
They hovered as summer snow over our lake and through the trees, blinded the sun with messages from dust. We read fragments of what wasn’t hidden and swore to return in seventeen years to read more but I think the message has been in some way altered for the early days of someone else. Anyway, we never could remember when we were supposed to go back there. And we cannot go back. Still, I make the drive every summer and not a word is ever spoken about what is beneath us, writing in the dark.