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.