Bob Clark sent me, “The Bat” by Theodore Roethke.

By day, the bat is cousin to the mouse
He likes the attic of an aging house
His fingers make a hat about his head
His pulse beat is so slow we think him dead

He loops in crazy figures half the night
Among the trees which face the corner light
But when he brushes up against the screen
We are afraid of what our eyes have seen
For something is amiss, or out of place
When mice with wings can wear a human face