Quotes About Crickets

The town was so quiet and far off you could hear only the crickets sounding in the spaces beyond the hot indigo trees that hold back the stars.

MELODYLong chorus, pierce the night.Noon for crickets.

Already midcareer, Ted published Van Gogh, Painter of Sound, which found correlations between Van Gogh's types of brushstroke and the proximity of noisemaking creatures like cicadas, bees, crickets, and woodpeckers—whose microscopic traces had been detected in the paint itself.

September's Baccalaureate A combination is Of Crickets — Crows — and Retrospects And a dissembling Breeze That hints without assuming — An Innuendo sear That makes the Heart put up its Fun And turn Philosopher.

She could smell the sea in the air, but more than that, she could smell the scent of the grass as it awoke from its winter slumber. She could hear the sound of crickets as they sang to the emerging stars.

The first crickets of summer are chirping. This is the soundtrack of my summer and every summer.

The thing that seemed like silence must have been the endless cry of all the crickets and locusts in the world, rising and falling. (The Wide Net)

'The Room' came out in 2003, really to crickets. Nobody showed up to see it. It made $1800 at the box office. Everyone assumed it was going to disappear.

Counting stars by candlelight all are dim but one is bright the spiral light of Venus rising first and shining best from the northwest corner of a brand-new crescent moon crickets and cicadas sing a rare and different tune Terrapin Station...

In the hot, slow time of day when time and sun and thought slow to a dragging, shallow, pale crawl, there is the sound of heat. The grasshoppers and crickets sing and whine. Drying grass crackles. Dogs pant. There is the sound of breath and breathing, of an entire world collapsed under the apathy of the tropics.

Most of my memories of Texas are of mosquitoes, watermelons, crickets, and my brother teasing me.

Everything in the house turned damp; the blue fur of mildew crept furtively over any object left standing for the briefest length of time: shoes, bags, boxes, it consumed them all. The sheets on the bed were clammy when he got between them at night, and the darkness rang with the strident cacophony of the big tree crickets that had been waiting for this, their season.

The stars were out in full, the crickets a little quieter. He had enjoyed talking to Allie and wondered what she'd thought about his life, hoping it would somehow make a difference, if it could.

It was that time of the night when most of the drunks were already home in bed. The crickets were done chirping, and the birds weren't ready to herald sunrise.

In the expectant quiet, there were only the usual sounds of the night. Wind in the big trees out past the school wall, starting to rise as the sky darkened, Crickets beginning to chirp. Then Sabriel heard it--the massed grinding of Dead joints, no longer joined by gristle; the padding of Dead feet, bones like hobnails clicking through necrotic flesh.

Those are the most monotonous fuckin' crickets I ever heard in my life.

Sounds fell all about me; I vibrated like still water ruffled by wind. Cicadas were out in full force...I had heard them begin at twilight and was struck with the way they actually do start up, like an out of practice orchestra, creaking and grinding and all out of synch. The frogs added their unlocatable notes, which always seem to me to be so arbitrary and anarchistic, and crickets piped in, calling their own tune which they have been calling since the time of Pliny..

It was a perfect summer's evening. Shade from the trees along the fence line stretched over the grass and a gentle breeze wafted. Crickets hummed in the shrubbery and, above the whole scene, a spectacular sunset spread its pretty bloom over the sky.

Crickets are immaculately clean, harmless animals.

You know on TV when there's one of those awkward, shocking moments and all you hear are the crickets in the background? Well chirp fucking chirp...this is one of those moments.

the nights would be orphaned without the sound of crickets chirping.

Myron trudged forward. Humidity hung in the air in a heavy blanket of beads. Myron's shirt began to feel sticky. The crickets were incessant and plenteous, their swarming tune as monotonous as a Mariah Carey CD, though not quite as grating. The grass tickled Myron's sockless ankles. Despite

The round silence of night, one note on the stave of the infinite. Ripe with lost poems, I step naked into the street. The blackness riddled by the singing of crickets: sound, that dead will-o'-the-wisp, that musical light perceived by the spirit. A thousand butterfly skeletons sleep within my walls. A wild crowd of young breezes over the river. - Hour of Stars (1920)

The crickets were incessant and plenteous, their swarming tune as monotonous as a Mariah Carey CD, though not quite as grating.