The bat swoops and wheels and dives in the yard
churning the air with furious wings
voicing slight eeks as it finds its way
snatching bugs from the air
a fearsome raptor in the insect world.

A wraith to you.
Maybe you fear it, or even hate.
Too much talk of rabies and vampires
nocturnal hunters with wings and claws and teeth.
And you may stand and whimper in the yard
as you hear the flap of wings
and the slight piercing of calls
as it darts past you in the blackness.
And as you look frantically for a winged body
it might seem that only when it flits between
the moon and your retina that the bat
ceases to be a phantom for a moment
as it is laid out ever so briefly 
against a night light.
You only trust in that tunnel of vision.

But what you must remember
is that the bat
is always
in the moon.

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