Spirit of the Bat
Hair rush, low swoop—
so those of us
stuck here on earth
know—you must be gods.
Or friends of gods,
granted chances
to push off into sky,
granted chances
to hear so well
your own voice bounced
back to you
maps the night.
Each hinge
in your wing’s
an act of creation.
Each insect
you snick out of air
a witness.
You transform
obstacles
into sounds,
then dodge them.
Copyright Credit: Poem copyright ©2013 by Peggy Shumaker from her most recent book of poems, Toucan Nest: Poems of Costa Rica, Red Hen Press, 2013. Poem reprinted by permission of Peggy Shumaker and the publisher.