Nocturnal

from Field Stones
by Robert Kinsley

In the quiet hours of evening
a bat has entered the house
its thin dark wings a flutter
of perfection easing into our dreams.

The dog is the first to stir
moving at the foot of our bed
her leg in the rhythm to the motion
of wings, a soft growl forming,

the bat swooping from room
to room while my son moans
loudly until I rise in darkness
to find on his floor a shape
even darker than this nightmare
he wakes from.  Later

we talk over the struggle,
how we chased it, and chased
it, until it found its own way
out to the roof where I saw it
hissing at the dark nocturnal
of itself and its division
from anything as small and bright
as we are.