Midnight black, it lay on the ground.
A shadow in the grass, left in the sun.
A thousand feathers, all of them found,
Not one taken from a living bird.
Watching and listening to the river's advice
Its master sat nearby on the bank
Looking for those which she could entice
For power to fuel her dark words.
When at last she had found her prey
And snatched up the cloak,
In a shower of feathers she flew away
Bound for trickery, her game preferred.