Insects 1

INSECTS 1

"Where do all the bugs go in wintertime? And what do they do?"

Utah Phillips, the folk singer front-man of the Industrial Workers of the World, said about his wanderings as a train-hopper that he had visited "all the unknown places." And as a train-hopper one is like a bird: north in the summer, south in the winter.

Did you know, that's what most of the insects do too?

Of course, most bugs don't have the same capability as humans, and definitely not the same as birds. In fact, since all those birds need energy to fuel those long flights up and down the map, bugs become terrified when the brown canopy over their heads thickens with discarded amber and maroon leaves. They dig deep - well, deep according to the insect world - and the birds instead feast only on moths: the freaks and outcasts. Everyone else digs deep and hits The River.

It's not a "river" like you and I know the term, of course. The River is more like a highway for the bugs. The River never dries up, but it frequently overflows its banks. You see this oftentimes during the Summer, as you walk along city sidewalks. Myriad, nondescript, shelled denizens of The River trickle their way over the pavement with their many legs. Your lip turns up with an involuntary snarl as the moon and starlight flickers back to you from the onyx carapace of some waterbug, winking at you.

And The River rolls on. Segmented bodies ebb and flow, hard yet soft, just like the body of water from which The River takes its name. If you could put your hand in it - though I guarantee you could never muster the courage required to do so - the bugs would yield to you, changing their course. At the same time, you would experience the unforgettable, loathsome sensation of countless needle-like feet, pincers, antennae, and claws pricking your exposed skin. The rattling shells and flexing segmented bodies would send hei sound of rushing liquid wood to your ears.