Joys of the Hunt

Terror stalked the night, waiting for his chance to strike.
The hour was late, and the streets were deserted. Yet Terror would not concede defeat, for he knew something would happen soon.
For the nights had been too quiet.
The flicker of a streetlamp made Terror pause. Could this be it?
No, Terror shook his head, It is merely a dying bulb.
Leaping onto a wooden fence, Terror stared up at the smiling moon. What prize had it gained, to be so smugly illuminated?
The soft patter of paws made Terror's ear twitch, and he turned toward the sound. It had come from a lawn overgrown with honeysuckle, its sweet stench clogging Terror's nose. Still, he noted the rustling of movement within the mass of oval leaves and pale flowers.
Careful calculation dictated each movement as Terror prepared himself. He would have only one chance, and it would not be wasted through haste.
One last twitch from within the honeysuckle, and Terror leapt with claws outstretched.
Warmth crumpled as his weight pinned it in place, and a swift bite ended the struggle before it could really begin.
Terror lifted his head, tilting his face to the sky so the smiling moon could see his prize. Let it smirk from so far above, Terror thought, Nothing with so pale a smile could possibly know the joys of the hunt.