Small as a child's hand, <br />Light as a leaf, <br />Fluttering in the up-draft <br />That flows like a river of air <br />Through the vent grate. <br />Even with all its rattling <br />Against the bars, <br />Trying to rise into blackness. <br />Spirit has flown, only bat corpse remains. <br /> <br />Tough rawhide is stretched <br />Thin as paper <br />Over that wide 'w' of wings <br />Hinged with claws, <br />Like a carnivorous kite: <br />Never to squeak and huddle <br />In warm masses of kin. <br />Spirit has flown, only bat corpse remains. <br /> <br />Trapped away from the thick chirping night <br />By a predatory swoop <br />Upon a fat cricket, <br />Never to swing through a halo of streetlight, <br />No matter how much wind lifts that tiny frame: <br />Only bat corpse remains.<br /><br />Lillian Susan Thomas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bat-corpse/
