I remember the Sierra pond where at evening bats went dipping,
pilgrims with sharp chins dipping to holy water, preying
on mosquitoes as if praying. I watched them, envying their purpose,
wanting at twenty some purpose. Snap the hatchling as it rises,
skim the darkness as it rises. I wanted that perfected arc,
hunting life along an arc,
both creature and creator.
What is it now about the creature appearing at a sudden angle,
wavering through dusk, angel of hunger at the night's rim,
like a card flicked at a hat brim? Now I read it like an icon
blinking on a screen and con something there that's meaningful,
a little void that's never full.