Bats outside, leather-flapping with that flag-in-the-wind snap, flutter, fwit-fwit
Like a cotton skirt slapping against two legs, flag to pole
Their cries, two-tone, of a lower pitch and less vulgar (though just as incessant) than that of their feathered--cousins? with wings and voices alike, some distant relative shared--second cousins, fourth removed
Somehow the bats seem frantic, with their flapping and crying, ungainly and uncertain and, well, blind.
A dive, a swoop, a ballgown trailing behind a running woman (she is Cinderella, and her dress will disappear soon, and in any event she's lost a shoe, but it's something of a relief as they were damned uncomfortable), and not a fluid fabric, no silk or satin, but something noisy, thick and with plenty of layers.
They are in a hurry, these bats, but I can't really see the point to their harried, tilted, turbulent flights, chaotic--and I really only hear them moving, in that way aren't I something of a bat myself?--circles, they are tracing circles over a cul de sac.
Circling, swinging, ovoid mobius strips streaming from their wingtips, busy little--
Not bees, kissing this bit, that bit of the lips of sweet orchids
No, bumble is the right first name for bees, honey fits too--slow, they stick to blossom, bramble, and blouse alike
And, well, if a bat landed on your sleeve you'd damn sure scream.
Perhaps, somewhere in that family tree--an uncle divorced, bastard child-of-a-mistress stepson--there's a place for the humble bee, for in their ability to elicit shrieks, bats and bees are quite the team.