A bat catches a bit of air with its lightness,
like nothing else around.
It is small and fast, despite its stubbish nozzle.
Its size is like those stress
spots that darken the periphery of my vision.
When it flies into my eyeline,
and between two rows of top-heavy trees,
it is gone before I can turn
or focus my eyes, or maybe it's slipped between
my right and left eye and
the space where their trajectories weave together.
Something so small that
my lazy eyes like short fingernails at an itch can't trace it.
And the less I see the bats,
the less I know to look for their black against blacker.