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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.