Cicada
Whenever I’m someplace new I wake energized; ready to explore. I ran down along the Georgetown waterfront, bikes and cars whizzing past. Underneath a bridge my fly knit shoes squelched, graffiti-covered walls shouting scrambled messages over one another until all was unintelligible.
I headed left through the forest and found a dirt path heading down directly to the water. Darting into the forest, I went to go see the mighty Potomac firsthand.
The first thing that hit me was the smell. I could feel it like a weight against me, pushing me back towards land. The river meandered by underneath the Key Bridge, uncaring for it’s stench. The second thing I noticed was the tent.
It was a dark blue tent and looked like it had been there for a time. Not wanting to disturb the inhabitant, I clambered back along the footpath and continued.
I passed bridges and boats, people and parked cars. There’s something exhilarating about running until you’re lost. The cobblestoned streets and brick buildings blur and you soak up all the details of the new like a hungry sponge.
Pretty soon the Halcyon House appeared in the distance. I sprinted to the gate and let myself in, trotting all the way to the pool.
Pausing to consider the shocking cold of the water, I slipped off my shoes and shirt before jumping in the deep end. The water ate me, swallowing my body.
My favorite moment during a swim is the immediacy of quiet after you jump in a pool. It pulls off your ears and turns down the volume on the world to your mind. You’re able to be one with the crystal-clear chlorinated water, adrift amidst a new city.
I swam a few laps underwater, rising to grab deep beautiful gulping breaths of morning air. My muscles tensed and relaxed, warming to the cold. I pulled myself up in the deep-end, tiptoes pointed to rise above the gently slapping waves made by my swim. The lazy sun had just woken up and was poking its head above the roof of the Ukrainian embassy. I drank it all in, staring across the river towards Arlington.
Just then I heard a cicada scream. The subtle buzz of insects in the background reached a screaming crescendo. I scanned the deck to see where it was coming from.
A sparrow had caught it by the wing, shaking its head angrily and slamming it against the cold concrete. Shake shake SMACK. Shake shake SMACK.
Aerodynamically the cicada shouldn’t be able to fly. But it doesn’t know that, so it goes on flying anyways.
A flock gathered to rend the struggling bug limb-from-limb. The original hunter dropped its prey only to squawk warnings at the others. With one final peck, the horrible screeching stopped.
It deftly picked up the large bug and flew south to eat its breakfast.
In a rush the images of the morning came back to me. The broken pavement, the river, the tent, the difference between the runners and the people who are running, the cicadas and the birds, the haves and have-nots.
I am lucky. I am so incredibly lucky. To be here, doing what I do. To be able to breathe and swim and run and eat and live.
A plane flew above, heading to RFK. It’s only a small step between a cicada and a bird, a bird and a plane. I find it better when you don’t know that you can’t fly.
So I dropped back into the water and spread my wings.
