Off the freeway, past clubs and courses, and tucked between the fenced sprawling lawns of Chicago’s North Shore lie fifty acres of tallgrass prairie, a precious remnant of the many miles sacrificed for agriculture long ago.
I knew nothing of the prairie’s history that summer. All I knew was I needed a walk, though it was almost dusk and dank due to the rain, puddly spongelike turf sucking on my sandals. Undaunted, I plodded forward, following a sprinkle of butterflies through damp, wheat-shaggy grass. Rush of traffic gave way to blackbird whistle and sparrow peep. Finches darted between high-stemmed wildflowers; fat bees hovered above.
A rustle in the path stopped me short. Inches from my feet, a spiky, beady-eyed creature shuddered behind large, powerful claws.
A lobster?
It had to be a miracle. How else could a sea-creature escape a boiling pot, skitter over a floor, out a door, across a lawn, under a fence, and into my path?
No wonder he cringed at the sight of me. I was the enemy. The predator. The monster of the boiling pot.
“I’m sorry,” I thought.
That was before I learned about the prairie crayfish, a species indigenous to Northern Illinois, which dwells underground, below the water table, and occasionally tunnels above land after a long rain.
Which means that the creature cringed not at the sight of a predator, but an intruder, a trespasser on what was left of his habitat.
Again, I am sorry. If only I could go back and reach out, Adam-like, to touch the finger of God.
