Chicken feathers? I think not!

Aryn alighted down onto a low branch. Shaking out her feathers as she watched the last rays of the sun fall into twilight.

She let out the first raspy hoot of the night as she peered the river for nocturnal hunting. Tilting her head back and forth, she faintly heard the soft heartbeat of a mouse. She softly flew into the air, circling.

She spotted her quarry and went in for a kill spiral. In less than a second, with a small, terrified squeak, the mouse was clutched in her talons.

Aryn ate her dinner- or in her case, breakfast- on a low-lying tree branch. After a few minutes, with the mouse comfortably in her gizzard, she eagerly looked for her late night entertainment- a late-night wolf.