Bats. by Max Schleicher

AT the concrete canal, I'd see one fly  /  spade-winged, escape-driven, skidding the wind,  /  a shadow struggling to slip its ties,  /  and one behind my shoulder vanishing  /  in wooden clicks down the onion-skin creek,  /  then two or three above repelled apart  /  with one shooting the bank, bent on its meat—  /  and I’d remember to be home by dark.
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