We flinched at the sound of crackling grasshopper wings like static electricity. I didn’t know it could sound like that. I slid my trekking pole side to side in front of me and one by one they launched. They were fat. Bigger than any I’ve seen in the city.
In seventh grade Biology, I refused to dissect the grasshopper. I remember the way it looked on the black counter of our operating table; the body was squishy and limp. Under the fluorescent classroom light, I watched my partner pull the scalpel through the connective tissue of the belly. The consistency resembling more of wet napkin than something that used to be alive. It didn’t resemble anything that could make that sound. That crack and whip of furious wings.
I’ve never liked grasshoppers. When we were children, my grandpa used to catch them. He’d put them into plastic water bottles and gave them to us as a “pet”. My cousins and siblings loved it. They would dangle the bottle in the air and watch it tire itself out jumping and jumping and jumping—until it laid still in the grass and leaves they stuffed inside for “food”. They were riveted. I refused to watch.
I am trying to remember the way it sounded. But I can only recall the dull thud of its body against the plastic, trying to get out. I didn’t know they could sound like sparklers being lit on the Fourth of July. And although I can’t say I’m any fonder of grasshoppers, there is something majestic about the crackling of grasshopper wings on dirt trail.
M Runs The World 