Yesterday, even the labrythine clouds held hollow trails for the lone kestrel. Small animal quarries gather under juniper brambles as the predator approaches above. It is the anathema of these tiny rodents, the dystopia of their daily lives, causing constant entropy.
The kestrels’ malengine viciousness is just a fact of his nature, as is the indelible need to hunt to survive. It is a primordial instinct that dictate their nomadic migration.
The diet of the kestrel does not include the chrysalis of certain insects, but it does feast on the grasshopper, or weary lizard basking on a sunwarmed xenolith. The wiser residual silouettes of tiny scramblers hide, while the transparency of the more obdurate rodents have zero chance of escaping the feathered predator.