The Bat

It’s early August and the air is dry, I shake my head and step outside, My small dark eyes seem so bemused, everything I see, completely new, Spent all my life inside the roost, but now I’m free, alive, woo-hoo! I spread my wings made from dark leather, dance over forests and fields of heather, Flying high, I twist and turn, silently without concern, I see the hills, the lakes, the trees, against my fur, I feel the breeze. Down below, above the lake, insects float, my belly aches, Tuck in my wings and close my eyes, sink through the air towards my prize, Lithe and nimble I catch my prey, atop the water, a grim ballet. It’s late in the morning; the sun must soon rise, yet in its brief absence, I rule the skies, My wings have grown tired; far I have roamed, with a heavy heart I make my way home, Where deep in the belly of a hollowed oak tree, I know that my family is waiting for me.