Poetry About Bats

The first bat loosens from the eaves. It writes one dark curve across the dusk. Another follows where the insects gather. No wingbeat troubles the listening air. By echo, the unseen world grows exact. Night opens, not empty, but inhabited.

Return after the first glance. It writes one dark curve across the dusk. The scene has kept more than appearance. No wingbeat troubles the listening air. Attention makes the ordinary answer back. Night opens, not empty, but inhabited.

The first bat loosens from the eaves. Time moves, but the image does not leave. Another follows where the insects gather. It returns us to night flight, echo, caves, migration, and animals too often mistaken for shadows. By echo, the unseen world grows exact. The day continues with a more attentive heart.