The four scooters

The sound of the batteries, so absent

So absent, not repetitive but monotonous — hence its danger

The style of a fine predator, the kind that goes undetected

A ninja warrior. First you don't hear them. Then you never hear again. Quite unlike a train

Taxis and ride-shares with their hair slicked back

They must have an engine, I imagine, the four scooters of the apocalypse. And they'll be waiting for the horsemen to mount them. But the horsemen move faster than the horses and make less noise

Always demanding attention

You hear the sound of the batteries, and the movement of a neck is very slow, and it takes so long, and one realizes That the hand no longer holds a phone, the hand is empty, Like its owner

Then, the horsemen arrive later than the scooters, they can't catch up, not even to bite their tails

And they go along the riverside promenade, as if they owned everything, as if they were the bridges