OFFICE-BOUND, I had company. In the humid wedge of a revolving door, a guest had pushed in with me. He (I think “he,” though I didn’t turn him over to check for the female’s telltale red valvifers at the distal end of the abdomen) froze when he sensed I saw him, playing dead. It was an uncomfortable moment. Was the security guard staring?
My passenger, all one inch of him, was a Lycorma delicatula, a spotted lanternfly. If you’ve spent any time at ground level, you know the type. We’re crawling with them. They are new(ish) New Yorkers, your flighty, frustrating neighbors. Like novices, out-of-towners, they go slowly, clogging the pavement. You roll your eyes, tap a foot to clear a path—nothing. You could kill them. The City of New…
