D. R. Goodman

By living late, and sleeping late, we miss the moment when the bats come home to roost— when crooked shadows flit in jagged loops that seem to seek the chimney, seem to miss, then somehow disappear into the eaves; and they (the bats) tuck wing to fur to wing in crevices and roof-beam beveling, doze through our nearly diametric lives, invisible as brown on brown—until today, wakened by dreams, I caught a slight, compelling corner-glimpse in gray first light, of sudden motion in the mostly still new dawn; and drawn, I rose to see the flight: our dark companions exiting the night.