Plateglass Cicada Swarm

The strip mall had no windows left. It still reflected us.

Cicadas clung inside the frames with our images held in their transparent wings. One sang. The others tilted their reflections toward it, and the note broke inside my skull. They lifted in one pane, scattered around the columns, and came together behind us.

Under the glass each insect was a wet, ugly thing no bigger than a thumb. Together they made glare walls that hid the real cloud. We knocked down metal sign letters and beat them in an uneven heap. They couldn't hold that noise in agreement. By dusk their glass sheds covered the floor, still reflecting places the swarm had left.

Before singing, the swarm makes false openings and moving mirrors. It holds one person's image across many wings and focuses the sound through that image. Clean repeated tones help it coordinate. Matte dust spoils the reflections. Smoke and irregular percussion also disrupt the formation.

Under pressure it divides into sheets, passes around obstacles, and rejoins behind them. At night the adults settle sluggishly in window frames, unless bright artificial light wakes them.