Upon a morning dark and cloudy, lightning stricks and makes them brody, not Adrian just like those they are, the hens return to coverage. Eggs they lay feeling safe and sound not looking for the river or the fields around. Darkness spits , thunder splits and us we hide. It’s not love we seek, not sorrow, not the worse nightmares in or sorrow, only retribution which will feel the same. Inhumane, love remains.