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An insect that aligns itself so closely with the ideas of archives and history offers an obvious choice for May as Brood X continues to emerge in a slow-churning hurricane of life and pulsing choral performances.

One of the early recorded observations of periodical cicadas in America comes from the journal of a reverend living near Philadelphia on May 9, 1715. “Being found in great multitudes all over the country, their noise made the cow-bells inaudible in the woods."

Scientists estimate this current generation at a few trillion strong.

Such a massive, synchronized event provides an awe-inspiring collective moment for us human observers that we share across geographies, a little like a solar eclipse.

I've spent **many** hours seeking and watching these red-eyed curiosities, through daylight and dark, and National Geographic published one of my photos.

Mostly, Brood X makes me wonder what cicadas can teach us about time and patience––the longest life cycle of any insect. I also think about what we can learn in chemistry, physics, music.

For instance, as their wings unfurl from 17 years crammed inside a shell, the veins fill with hemolymph, the insect equivalent of blood. The rigid veins then support a clear membrane covered in microscopic pillars and chemicals that work together to repel water and kill bacteria.

Maybe we can design a bike helmet that folds up thinner than a credit card. Or, for now, maybe we can just listen to their songs.

The cicadas in 1715 "lasted not longer than up to June 10, and disappeared.” Cool weather in DC will delay their departure a bit, but soon enough only "crystallized memory" will remain.