The Flying Fox

 

Something is moving in the attic.

You can’t see it but you can hear its echosound 

the whoosh of papery, velvety wings

whirling in elliptical orbit around your head.

 

If you were in the city you’d think you were dreaming,

You probably would be.

But here in a country loft you’re thinking birds,

the Alfred Hitchcock sort, and all you need is the soundtrack

to jolt you into Tippi Hedren terror.

 

And when you do turn up the lights

the sight of what looks like a flying fox

wheeling past your ear in pursuit of its daily intake

of hexapod invertebrates is not reassuring.

 

You do not delay to determine its genus

whether it’s a Common Pipistrelle or a Soprano

but high tail it promptly out of rustic bliss.

Copyright 2024 Cathy Leonard