In the June twilight, we looked without knowing why At the peaked gable of a corner house; And while we looked, a hundred bats flew out From the patterned eaves over the beach and the lake; And as soon as they had wavered high out of sight, Came other hundreds at nine intervals: Like black leaves dropping and gathered up again In their own wind, and blown to the setting sun. After the firm birds of water and the bright birds of trees, After the transparent golden air of day, It is magical to see a host of shadows Trembling upward over the mountain-top, Or hovering past a balconied window at midnight And flaking singly toward a mottled moon. Even the bats are beautiful in Chapala Where shadows leave the breast and fly away. |