By Lydia Chapman

My eyes trail the unpredictable trajectory of the bats’ swift fluttering motions. For a few hours they dominate and command the evening, black holes riding maverick wind currents, snagging all insects in their path ; only to dissipate with the dawning of morning, dismantled from their aristocratic status with a beam of light. Who knows where else they reign in high rank when they ride off with the moon, and night falls to day

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