"Chirp, chirp, chirp" - the symphony of crickets and critters carried out their nightly duties. In the background, a constant thrum played as a support role. Who was playing it? Neither I nor the crickets knew.

A thunder stroke every other chirp. Sometimes in the distance, sometimes in the fore. But there were no clouds. If this was a storm it was a different one.

The chirps continued nonetheless. This is what they do, where they live, they chirp. The foreign sounds should not affect their nightly duties.

Zooms and clings came and went. What would a critter know of metal and fire? Could they smell the gunpowder?

If they did, they did not care, for on they went chirping. Fire balls raised where mountains stood. Yet they kept chirping.

Barks of desperate dogs joined the cacophony. They do not like fireworks, how could they like the bombs? What comfort would they get when their masters could not even attend to their own kind?

I could not hear the wails of children, nor the thousands of voices that were now to be silenced.

Only the chirps.