Posted by admin on October 5th, 2007 filed in Uncategorized
from "A Door in the Hive" IN TONGA the sacred bats hang in their chosen grove, sinister old dustbags, charcoal gray, doze upside down, alien, innocent. Restless, like seals on a rock, they nudge one another, they slip off into air to circle return, squeaking their utterance, a fluttering language, and others, disturbed, squeak in reproof. All day in the heat they wait for dusk and the high invisible orchards. If they could think it would not be of us.