“all of my bats exodus at once / into frenzy which is actually / an orchestrated dance / that draws them to what they want . . .”
At dusk small brown bats
fall from the eves of the porch
having made a home for brown
fur. A cloud of mosquitoes
rises from the lake. With erratic
wing strokes, bats sense their prey,
I can only see or understand
by what it is not, a small voice as guide.
