One summer in the Oklahoma panhandle the grasshoppers were everywhere. Every patch of weeds along the alley would erupt like a pan of popping corn if I set foot in it. When we drove the highway, we inadvertently slaughtered dozens. The collisions speckled our windshield with hemo-lymph. Their wings, coffee-colored fans striped with yellow at the outer edges, lodged in our wipers and fluttered in the onrushing air. Sometimes an entire grasshopper, or most of one, would lodge there as well, struggling to get free as the wind tore it to tatters.
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