An hour when the daylight drains.
Casting about in shadows,
A distant bat holds to its One Course,
Intent, flickering moments across the ebbing sky
In its life-world
Circumnavigated by the certainty of Trees, Sky, Air
In a furious fling that dances and captures and must tear
But from this distance, bloodless,
Is a scattered sign that even in suburbia
The leading edge of mystery begins with a small thing
Going about its duties in an unthought way
- Like my hand could reach out and touch more.
Sept. 2001
Have you ever stood outside your house at dusk and watched a bat hunt around the trees, silent and distant? And yet known that it was tearing up moths and other insects?
Have you never been amazed at how little you know, at how complicated even this tiny creature and its habits are, and never wished that your hand could stretch out and sense what was going on?
