Afterwards, Hyde lay contentedly on a bed of soft moss, gazing upwards at the fingers of darkness touching the high trees and at the starshine glinting frostily in the heavens. The moon rose majestically over the wooded glen, bathing it in pale light.
"I make up a new poem," Hyde confided. "Would you like to hear my poem?"
"Hmmm-HMMM!" responded Figan.
Hyde cleared his throat and carefully recited:

"That's a fine poem, Hyde," complimented Figan. "Your poems are getting better all the time."
" So are we," boasted Hyde. "We will beat those humans again and again, for we are the guerrillas in the glen."

Even as Hyde babbled on about future victories, Figan could not rid himself of the nagging doubt that victory was impossible. Today might have been their greatest triumph. Figan knew the humans would be back and they would bring bigger machines.