They were speaking, in different languages.
They were mumbling, murmuring, rumbling.
I merely skittered around on the floor, trying to avoid the thunder of tree trunks falling everywhere, to the pulse of ambient sound. Every so often someone would scream, and I would giggle, and flutter a little, scatter some hairs – clear some floor space. The thunder of legs would increase for a brief time, and I would dart and weave as five branched hands come down with rolled newspapers, plates, even fruits.
Until I skitter to a person’s pant leg, and hide between the sock and pant hem.
Wait until they give up, and I’m warmed again by the cotton and skin.
Then I run up the leg, digging my hairs in, and enjoy the entire process all over again.
In all my days as a cockroach, I’ve never been caught in my fun.