Pharaoh cicadas emerge after seventeen years

The drone begins before dawn in the woodlands near Morristown, a low mechanical hum that seems to rise from the earth itself. Seventeen years underground, and now the pharaoh cicadas push through soil that has seen seasons the insects never witnessed. Their red eyes catch the early light as they climb the nearest vertical surface: oak bark, fence posts, the stems of invasive multiflora rose that has spread through these woods since their last emergence.

The pharaoh cicada spends nearly its entire life as a pale, burrowing nymph, feeding on tree root fluids in the darkness below. For seventeen years, it grows slowly, molting through five stages while the forest above changes. Trees fall and new ones take root. The white ash overhead shows stress from invasive insects, but its roots still feed the cicadas below. When soil temperature reaches exactly sixty-four degrees Fahrenheit, some trigger clicks in their bodies. They dig upward through two feet of earth, emerging by the thousands on the same night.

The timing is everything. Seventeen years creates a prime number cycle that predators cannot match. Birds like the common grackle and gray catbird feast on the first emergents, but the sheer abundance overwhelms them. Most cicadas survive to molt one final time, splitting their brown nymphal shells and unfurling transparent wings. Males climb high into the canopy, where they vibrate specialized membranes called tymbals to produce their species-specific song. The sound carries for miles. Females respond with wing flicks that create sharp clicking sounds. After mating, females use their saw-like ovipositors to cut slits in tree branches, laying eggs that will hatch in six weeks. The tiny nymphs drop to the ground and burrow down, beginning another seventeen-year wait.

This synchronous emergence shapes the entire ecosystem. Tree swallows and purple martins gorge on flying adults. Ground-dwelling creatures like the spotted turtle find windfall protein from cicadas that fall or are knocked from branches. Even the forest floor changes as millions of emergence holes pockmark the soil, aerating compacted earth. The invasive Japanese honeysuckle may benefit from this temporary soil disruption, its seeds finding new purchase in the disturbed ground.

The drone continues through the morning, a sound that connects this June to 2009, and 2009 to 1992, each emergence a precisely timed reunion with the sun. Close your eyes where you are and listen for that low, thrumming frequency that seems to come from everywhere at once.