New York Times
Rick Rojas
ONONDAGA NATION — The cicadas return with no regard for subtlety.
Their trill vibrates through the thick woods that cover much of the Onondaga Nation, sounding to those who welcome them like a natural symphony and registering in other ears as something akin to a muffled car alarm.
These days, they are inescapable: thwapping into windshields, sneaking into a diner stowed away in customers’ collars. In a clearing off one of the Native American nation’s swervy roads, cicadas dot tree branches, cling to leaves and flit around in the afternoon sun.
“One just flew right on me,” Sid Hill Jr., 7, called out to his mother as he ran around collecting cicadas on a recent afternoon. It took only a few minutes for him to nearly fill a freezer bag. He popped one into his mouth, its wings still flapping. The others would be cooked later.