A typical spring day in the yard had sparrows hopping around the grass, the smell of dampness, and soggy earth from a nighttime shower. It was all quiet and familiar. She went outdoors to clean up the flower bed and transplant a few shrubs. Gloves, rake, bucket—nothing out of the ordinary.
However, there was an odd, subtle crunch as the shovel hit the ground. She knelt down and noticed something among the earthy clumps that was white and covered in clay. She initially believed them to be plastic beads; perhaps someone had spilled toy filler or little ornamental balls. They were tiny, spherical, and slightly translucent, and they were packed closely together like grapes. However, she heard a slight rustling sound coming from someplace within the fractured earth as soon as she touched them with her glove.
She froze. Her heart began to race. These “balls” were living things.
She carefully removed the top layer of earth to be sure. She then noticed that the white spheres were positioned inside a little space, as though someone had purposefully built a nest around them. Tightly packed soil created a small, tidy cave that appeared to have been created by hands or by someone equally adept.
They were eggs, she realized. And they were numerous. Numerous. For a tiny creature, too many. She felt a chill go through her chest.
Her mind whirled: “What is it? A bird? A reptile? A snake?
However, birds do not deposit their eggs in the earth. Snakes rarely do, and they have different-looking clutches. Then it dawned on me that some insects construct subterranean chambers for their eggs.
And something appeared from the ripped soil, as if to validate her suspicion.
A hefty, dark body. thick and covered with glossy chitin. It went slowly and deliberately. A gigantic beetle was it. Or, more accurately, a woman. And she was using her powerful, horn-like “face” to push earth back as she attempted to cover the clutch once more.
She felt a surge of instinctive fear.
Because she was aware of:
It was the nest of a mole cricket. With the ability to tear through a whole garden bed and kill plant roots in a matter of days, gardeners refer to this monster as the earth crab, the living drill, or the garden nightmare.
And this — was where a future colony was hatched.
She took a swallow. She took pride in the yard. Her trade and delight is the garden. In a few weeks, scores of hungry mole crickets would be ready to destroy the soil if she left this nest unattended.
She gazed at the living, pulsating cluster of white spheres for a considerable amount of time. It had a primitive quality to it: secret life developing right under our feet while we act as though everything is under control, nature vying for room.
Now, however, the choice was unavoidable.
She raised the shovel. inhaled deeply. and took out the clutch in its entirety.
There was no happiness. No respite.
Just the sense that she had stopped nature’s attempt to reclaim the area.
And at that very moment, she was merely a participant in the environment rather than its master.
