It was an ordinary spring day in the yard: damp soil after a night rain, the smell of moisture, sparrows hopping through the grass. Everything was familiar, calm. She came outside to transplant a few bushes and finally tidy up the flower bed. Rake, bucket, gloves — nothing unusual.
But when the shovel struck the soil, there was a strange, faint crunch. She bent down — and saw something white smeared with clay in the clumps of earth. At first, she thought they were plastic beads, maybe someone had spilled filler from a toy or tiny decorative balls. Small, perfectly round, slightly translucent, clustered tightly together like grapes. But as soon as she touched them with her glove, she heard a faint rustling from somewhere inside the broken soil.
She froze. Her heart started beating faster. These “balls” were alive.
To make sure, she carefully removed the top layer of earth. And then she saw that the white spheres were arranged inside a compact chamber — as if something had deliberately constructed a nest around them. The soil had been packed tightly, forming a tiny cave — neat, almost as if made by hands… or by something just as skilled.
She realized they were eggs. And there were many of them. Dozens. Too many for a small creature. A cold feeling ran through her chest.
Her thoughts raced: “What is it? A bird? A reptile? A snake?..”
But birds don’t lay eggs in the ground. Snakes rarely do, and their clutches look different. Then a memory surfaced: some insects build underground chambers for their eggs.
And as if confirming her suspicion, something emerged from the torn soil.
A dark, heavy body. Thick, with a shiny chitin surface. It moved slowly, deliberately. It was a giant beetle. Or more precisely — a female one. And she was trying to cover the clutch again, pushing soil back with her strong, horn-like “face.”
A wave of primal fear washed over her.
Because she understood:
It was a mole cricket’s nest. The creature gardeners call the earth crab, the living drill, the garden nightmare — capable of tearing through an entire garden bed, destroying plant roots in days.
And this — was the hatching ground of a future colony.
She swallowed. The yard was her pride. The garden — her craft and joy. If she left this nest alone, in a couple of weeks there would be dozens of ravenous mole crickets, ready to turn the soil into ruin.
She stared for a long time at the pulsing, living cluster of white spheres. There was something primal in it: nature fighting for space, hidden life unfolding right beneath our feet while we pretend everything is under control.
But now, the decision was inevitable.
She lifted the shovel. Took a deep breath. And removed the entire clutch at once.
There was no joy. No relief.
Only the feeling that she had intercepted the moment when nature tried to take the territory back.
And in that moment, she wasn’t the master of the place — just another participant in it.
