November 1981
Small as a child's hand,
Light as a leaf,
Fluttering in the up-draft
That flows like a river of air
Through the vent grate.
Even with all its rattling
Against the bars,
Trying to rise into blackness.
Spirit has flown, only bat corpse remains.
Tough rawhide is stretched
Thin as paper
Over that wide 'w' of wings
Hinged with claws,
Like a carnivorous kite:
Never to squeak and huddle
In warm masses of kin.
Spirit has flown, only bat corpse remains.
Trapped away from the thick chirping night
By a predatory swoop
Upon a fat cricket,
Never to swing through a halo of streetlight,
No matter how much wind lifts that tiny frame:
Only bat corpse remains.
A touching trip on the river of life that once flowed through this desiccated form.