Bat Box

by David Chorlton

There’s a rustle at dusk in the box
held high on a pole in the yard
with a backdrop of oak, rock
and sycamore, where the resident bats
prepare for the dark
with its fur textured touch and the wool
lining the voice of an owl.
The first one comes out

as a tremble
that takes form and flies; the second
resembles applause
with two hands set free of their sleeves;
the third and fourth take opposite
directions, and ten minutes pass
between the fifth and the last,
by which time the fox

is alert in the grass, while the trees
in the forest step back
for the bear who means no harm
to pass through.