[Quatral]

There in the dark, on the eventide
Cruel howls fill the night
A hunt in its final crescendo
 

Yet when the sun rose
There was naught
But a few feathers
  

Those who paid witness in passing or otherwise, mark the thunderous final stand of the
beast in its den. A great bird, like a raven without peer, its voltaic defiance smote the
very air with the sickly scent of ozone.
 

Its killer? In hoarse whispers, declared,
 

"...We are not full..."

 
There would be more to come.