Strangely, no insects sang; all dogs and coyotes were quiet.

No birds chartered, no insects sang; they were as well equipped as we were to predict the rain.

Amid the brush and stubby trees insects sang merrily, oblivious to the stinging death that arced through the air.

The night air was cool, and insects sang in the grasses all around them.

The insects sang in stridently different keys.

Nearby, insects sang in the brush, and a chill wind soughed through the higher reaches of the forest.

The night was anything but still; insects and frogs called or sang, and an occasional bird pierced the forest with its call, harsh or sweet.

Drops of water continued to splat down out of the trees, and frogs and insects sang, although nothing else moved or made a sound.

He sipped his wine, as the insects sang in the darkness around them, and the lights in the lanterns flickered.

A chokebird chawk-chawked as it flew past, and the insects sang their songs, but there was nothing amiss that Sleel could see.