O little ships wrinkling the air,
yawned out of caves’ mouths
to sail the oncoming dusk,
we greet you! Supremely skilled navigators of the night,
able to home in on a pin,
we salute you.
Summer evenings, there you are,
out beyond the glare of cars
listening for food.
We praise your intricate ear shapes,
formed by a mushroom-loving God;
the triangle of your face by the One
who understands geometry. Your eyes
not blind, but bright in your face fur.
The glory of your hand wings, Chiroptera—
you fly and scoop and feed all at once,
like a juggler in the air eating peanuts!
I, the land anchored,
become dull-eyed and fat
and drugged by machines,
vow by this poem to free my eyes
from the lighted screens,
give up making love to the phone
set down the cup of despair,
and go
look at
bats.
This poem first appeared in Friends of Acadia Journal and Room to Breathe: The Wild Heart of the San Francisco Peninsula (Heyday Books).
—
Charlotte Muse lives in Menlo Park, California. Her poems have appeared in magazines and anthologies. She’s written five chapbooks and a full-length collection, In Which I Forgive the River (Broadstone Books). Recent awards include finalist for the Orchard Street Press Poetry Prize and a nomination for England’s Forward Prizes, both in 2023. She’s also won the Yeats Society of New York Poetry Prize, the Allen Ginsberg Award, and the Elinor Benedict Poetry Prize, among others.
