Clouds of mosquitoes swarmed above the concrete. They hover and float around aimlessly, hoping for a taste of blood. Little do they know, they’re the ones who will be tasted. They nighthawks are coming. They awake early from their slumber, the sun still lurking in the horizon. A call is made, and it is time to feast. The birds form a flock, gliding through the trees and break out into the open night. The cloud is still there, still swarming, still hovering, still unknowing. One by one the nighthawks swoop into the cloud of insects and one by one the insects are devoured. There’s no time to escape, no time to react. They’re helpless, they’re pathetic. It’s survival of the fittest, and the strong always overpower the weak.