Stridulation

At a regional food fair, next to a vendor
selling Asian-themed Crocs charms and another
handing out chile-lime dried beef samples, 
there's a guy inviting folks to try air-
fried crickets. There's one each in small
paper cups: their compact bodies no larger
than an inch, their hind legs neatly folded 
(not, as I once thought, the part of their 
anatomy responsible for producing their 
chirping song). Nearby, an oil-glossed mound 
of them in a bowl. From a little distance, 
they look no different from other crackling 
finger food my uncles scooped up by the handful 
in between swigs of cold San Mig: besides crickets, 
deep-fried locusts, pork belly, ceviche. It's with
their wings that crickets make their music— one wing 
has a scraper, the other an edge like a file. The central 
part of the wing is called the harp, and it amplifies 
the sounds they make. Some species will eat anything, 
whereas others feed only on flowers, fruit, and leaves. 
Their collective noun is "orchestra"— which is fitting,
even in the moment we bite down and the crunch 
resonates for a tiny minute in the balcony of our mouths.