Winged warder of the night hurry blind into the light where tiny sounds betray elusive flying food. Dive. Strike. Roll the axis. Vere again. Never touching or colliding, rise jurist of the dark. Let the moth beware her ancient nemesis come to judge and sentence. Depose small, unseen marauders in their flight. Close debate with moral bite. When the hawk first cries dawn, speed into a dark, cool cave where safety dwells in numbers, where bonds can be proclaimed and verdicts of the hunt exchanged. Sleep then as day prepares another night. Hang by fingered claws and dream of soaring, swooping, striking, diving. Dive.