Ah, cicadas.
The only insects with a built-in megaphone, a decades-long grudge, and a party schedule that makes a rock star blush.
You’ve heard them. You may have mistaken them for faulty power lines. Or perhaps your dog brought one inside and presented it like a trophy. Either way, the moment summer hits and the trees start humming like alien spacecraft, you know:
The cicadas have arrived.
And they have things to say.
Underground Introverts Turned Sky-Screaming Extroverts
The life of a cicada begins where all truly dramatic stories begin: underground.
After hatching, a cicada nymph burrows beneath the earth and spends the next 13 or 17 years (depending on species) quietly sipping tree sap through a straw-like mouth. No drama. No noise. Just... tree juice and vibes.
It’s basically a gap year. But in the dirt. For over a decade.
Then, on a warm summer night, boom. They emerge in unison. Thousands, sometimes millions of them, crawling out of the ground like extras from The Walking Dead, only smaller and far less organized.
This is their big moment. Their debut. Their Bugchella.
Cicada Speed-Dating: Loud, Clumsy, and Weirdly Romantic
Once free from the soil, cicadas shed their crunchy exoskeletons, flex their wings, and start doing what they were born to do: Make. Some. Noise.
Male cicadas are the real showmen. They flex their tymbals (think: ribbed drum-skins in their abdomens), and begin what can only be described as nature’s most aggressive karaoke.
Their goal? Find a female cicada who isn’t completely put off by the sonic equivalent of a blender full of marbles.
If he’s lucky, she flicks her wings. (That's a yes in cicada.)
If not, he cranks it louder. (Still a no, but now everyone knows.)
One Wild Week. Then... Obscurity.
After a few days of frantic courtship, chaotic mating, and possibly flying into your face by mistake, the adult cicada’s purpose is complete. They live just long enough to ensure the next generation is buried and blissfully unaware of how loud their parents were.
It’s all over in a flash.
Like Coachella. But with wings. And no toilets.
Why So Many? And Why So LOUD?
There’s actually some genius here. Cicadas use a strategy called predator satiation, they show up in such massive numbers that predators (birds, raccoons, your cat) can’t possibly eat them all. It’s the bug version of you can't fire us all.
As for the volume? Some cicadas reach up to 120 decibels, about as loud as a rock concert or a chainsaw. But they don’t mean to annoy us.
They’re just looking for love. At full volume. In stereo.
Respect the Chirrup
So the next time you're out walking and a cicada nearly dive-bombs your forehead, don’t swat. Tip your hat. Salute their dedication to being the most dramatic, over-the-top, oddly endearing bugs of the summer season.
They’ve waited 17 years for this moment.
You can wait 17 minutes for them to stop shouting.
Written from the shade of a very loud almond tree. With earplugs. And admiration.
Copyright © Tom Kane July 2025