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It’s late. Too quiet. They wait, watch, wonder from where victory will come. 

In the darkness a fox slinks through the hedgerows seeking easy prey; and still they wait. 

In the starlight an owl lifts into the air, patrolling field-lines. Still, they watch.

Then a murmur, a motion, a snapped twig, a brushed bush, a relaxing laugh - easy prey coming on.

Watchers emerge from shadows, lift from hedgerows, spring the trap and catch thin air. No comment, closing ranks, clever briefs, courts triumphant.

They’ll come again.

So still, they wait.

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