These fellows move under inertia and aren't given to quick change of direction, so they continue, of necessity, to advance. A thwack on the nose puts them flat on the ground, wings splayed. I pin them down with my front paw, affording myself a breather. Then I let them up. Having let them up, I pin them down again. Drawing on Kōmei's tactics of warfare, I encroach and withdraw again and again. After thirty minutes or so at this, having exhausted my quarry, I apply my jaws and give a solid shake. Then I spit them back out. This time they hit the turf and just lie there, motionless, so I bat them into the air and pin them again as they land. Once I tire of this, it's all over. I crunch them up and swallow them down. For those who've never eaten a mantis, I have to say they're not exactly tasty. Nutritionally, too, they offer less than one might hope.
After mantis hunting, there's also cicada capture. Cacadas, of course, come in various forms. Just as there are greasy humans, loquacious humans, and melancholy humans, so too, in the world of cicada are abura zemi, min-min zemi, and tsuku-tsuku zemi. Abura zemi are tenacious and best left alone. Min-min zemi are haughty and no fun at all. Only tsuku-tsuku zemi are fit for sport. They first appear in late summer. In those waning days, when autumn's breeze intrudes through light clothing and cools the skin, when a sneeze first hints at a cold, they twitch their tales en masse, swelling the air with their cries. Their cries carry so that, from my perspective, their calling in life is nothing more than raising their cry and, as luck may have it, being stalked by a cat. In early autumn I'm on them. My "cicada capture rec time" has begun. Let me state for the record that cicadas are not to be found on the ground. Some do fall to the ground, but those belong to the ants. And those that belong to the ants, lying about on the ground, are not for me. The lot I'm after are high in the branches, crying out with their "tsuku-tsuku" call.