Having been bitten by a rabid bat I was trying to save from a fire, I’d prefer never again to see bats up close. And here, in this poem by D.R. Goodman, who lives in California, I get to watch them from a safe distance.

Exiting the Night

By living late, and sleeping late, we miss

the moment when the bats come home to roost –

when crooked shadows flit in jagged loops

that seem to seek the chimney, seem to miss,

  

then somehow disappear into the eaves;

and they (the bats) tuck wing to fur to wing

in crevices and roof-beam beveling,

doze through our nearly diametric lives,

invisible as brown on brown – until

today, wakened by dreams, I caught a slight,

compelling corner-glimpse in gray first light,

of sudden motion in the mostly still

new dawn; and drawn, I rose to see the flight:

our dark companions exiting the night.