by Hugh Eckert
This wind is from wings, not weather;
Gently bushing our faces as we sit entranced,
Riveted on the vortex spinning before us-
Whirl of small bodies, backlit and translucent
In the last reaching rays of the sunset.
They stream unceasing from the cave mouth
With a surf-sound, the flutter of a myriad wings;
Spiral up, then flow off in a winding line,
Undulating through the air, a Chinese dragon
Made of millions of small, hungry hunters.
The wonder breaks over us in waves, fills
Our hearts, steals our words and voices; all
The figures and statistics dissolve in this:
A whispering storm of bats pouring up
From a sinkhole in the summer nightfall.