Deep in the woods, the howl of the wolves, off in the seas, our brothers play. Up in the skies, our sisters fly, their eyes in the cities is my way. -- Fighting Fit
Children of the night, what interesting music they make. Sing, my family of shadows. Sing the song of the moon and stars. Even when you can't see them. I sing to street lamps, cars, trucks and trains. The moon will hear me nonetheless.
It is a forest of made of false stone and true noise, but there is still food to hunt. There are still places to roost and raise our young.
Sharp ears made for finding prey in the underbrush are no good against the roar of the skin-apes' metal beasts. Sharp eyes are just as good. Light or dark, I find plenty to feed myself, my mate, and my nestlings.
The skin apes plant trees, sometimes. Weak and small things that grow to their wires and are then felled before they plant them again. I do not bother with those. There are better places to nest. Like the nooks in their false stone structures. Those things stand for far longer than I or my kind can live.
There is just one flaw.
The skin apes come and destroy my nests. There's no telling when or why. I and my nestlings eat their vermin, yet the skin-apes come to dash my eggs on the ground or take my hatchlings away, or make my nesting material food for one of their metal beasts. They try to capture me with their pouches on poles, yet I fly free.
I find another place. I make another nest. I hunt. I thrive. I breed, and I sing.
Sing for the moon.
Sing for the lights and noise and false stone nesting places.
Sing to the other children of the night.
[Photo by R煤ben Marques on Unsplash]
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