Quite near but not quite to
the white tile balcony,
at dusk there soared or flit
an acrobatic troupe
of house bats out for joy
of moths and flies and thrill
of shade and grayish green
with dabs of black beneath
the slapdash pergola.
They did not flitter past
the balcony’s sad cast-
iron rattling rail
while in this ecstasy.
But was this escapade
a matter merely spurred
by hunger’s high-pitched squeal
or were more ancient norms
at work among them there,
these lines that ricocheted
between mosquito clouds
and brushed by concrete walls?
Just why this weft across
the warp of evening drafts,
this weave of russet grays?
Photo by Clément Falize on Unsplash
