Raging Crickets

Tonight, the crickets rage.

Why on earth do they cry out at such a ripe hour? An insignificant assemblage of pitched voices, their grating, chaotic chorus has jarred me quite out of sleep. Together, they have created a sound loud enough to be heard in the subconscious world. It surrounds me, unseen, and cascades against the receiving walls, branding them badly.

The voices are filled with meaningless complaints that are superficial in content and arrogant in persistence. They have stolen my peace and deliberately destroyed their own. I lay awake and listen to the sounds of the evening and am indignant. What insolence!

The crickets sleep in the day, while I sleep night. They know this. Of that I am positive. Why can't they make their banter when the sun is shining and the world is alive? Because the imps take glee in pestering me. I called the police and ordered them to issue a noise ordinance to these unruly neighbors of mine, but they raged and hung up on me. They raged louder than the raging crickets, and there is now a ringing in my ear.

The night is waning fast, and my bloodshot eyes can just make out the insides of my domain. The crickets have finally stopped their raging and are settling down, I assume, in their cool, comfortable beds ready for sleep. They have had a long night of raging.

I'll wait until they are all asleep, and the sun is high. Then I'll walk outside and shout obscenities until the evening comes and my voice is shot.