Six years ago, I spotted an oddly-shaped green leaf on my sidewalk. It was a skinny leaf, as though torn from a larger piece. Scrunching down on my knees for a closer look, I realized it was no ordinary leaf. Instead, I stared into the rotating, alien-looking eyeballs of a praying mantis. His weird eyes really did rotate like the bulging eyes of a chameleon. I could track the tiny black pupils staring back at mine.
He stood directly between me and the door of my house. I wanted him to hop or jump or fly or whatever it is that he does, directly away from me.
Instead, he dared me to squish him. He wasn’t a bit afraid. Every move I made, he followed with his stare. He became a Godzilla-like monster to me. Would my wife arrive home and find me, hours from now, still locked in a sidewalk staring duel with this fearsome-looking creature?
I imagined his brain had me figured out. His calculating calmness meant to weaken me, his intentions to do me harm once I gave in to the madness of the ever-creeping fear.
Seizing upon a solution to the impasse, I grabbed a twig, and, holding it bravely at arm’s length, I poked him. Godzilla stood his ground on the sidewalk, eyes rotating toward mine, defying my efforts, as if to say, “Is that all you’ve got?”
I poked again. This time, his large front legs, the ones he seemed to be praying with, flexed open, then slowly closed. Maybe he really was in prayer–in prayer for this giant oaf of a being who was interrupting meditations that I could not perceive.
In time, he unlocked his rotating-eyeball stare. Perhaps his prayers had concluded. Perhaps he spied a tasty-looking beetle in the weeds. Perhaps he felt sorry for me and decided to let me go. Legs still held in reverence, ever so slowly and proudly, he strolled forward to the edge of the sidewalk and dropped over its edge to once again enter the bug kingdom.
I may be the only human he ever makes contact with. I wonder what impression I left behind?
Postlude
Two weeks ago, I was crossing a parking lot, when I spotted an oddly-shaped brownish-tan leaf. It was a skinny leaf, as though torn from a larger piece.
This time when I scrunched down, I recognized that I was staring into the rotating eyes of another praying mantis.
By now, I knew that a praying mantis changes color from green, in a wet environment, to brown, when it is dry.
By now, I knew that a praying mantis possesses ultrasonic hearing, much like a bat; this one had heard me coming.
By now, I knew that a praying mantis has exceptional eyesight and can see movement up to 60 feet away; her rotating eyes could see me better than I could see her.
By now, I hoped that somehow this praying mantis had placed herself in a parking lot to help me recall her long-deceased green relative, and to remind me that the seemingly most insignificant of life’s encounters should not pass unnoticed and without gratitude.