Explaining an Affinity for Bats

--A. E. Stallings

That they are only glimpsed in silhouette,

And seem something else at first—a swallow—

And move like new tunes, difficult to follow,

Staggering towards an obstacle they yet

Avoid in a last-minute pirouette,

Somehow telling solid things from hollow,

Sounding out how high a space, or shallow,

Revising into deepening violet.

That they sing—not the way the songbird sings

(Whose song is rote, to ornament, finesse)—

But travel by a sort of song that rings

True not in utterance, but harkenings,

Who find their way by calling into darkness

To hear their voice bounce off the shape of things.